If Every Road Led Back Home
by SomewhereApart
Summary: Sometimes you have to look back to move forward. What happens when Charlotte's past becomes her present?
1. The True Story of What Was

**Title:** (If We Knew What We Had Before It Was Gone) If Every Road Led Back Home

**Fandom:** Private Practice

**Rating:** PG13

**Spoilers:** Up to 3.17 "Triangles"

**Summary:** Sometimes you have to look back to move forward. What happens when Charlotte's past becomes her present?

**Author's Note:** Title from "Very Last Country Song" by Sugarland

* * *

"You want to know why I slept with you again?" she asks him, still a little breathless, sprawled next to him crosswise on the bed they barely made it to in their haste to get naked and sweaty.

He chuckles a little and turns his head to look at her, nods. "Okay."

"You apologized," she tells him. "You were petty, and small, and ridiculous. But you recognized it and you apologized, and you threw in that little 'beautiful woman' compliment there to sweeten the deal-"

"You _are_ a beautiful woman."

She smiles, turns on her side to face him. "Already naked," she reminds. "Flattery isn't necessary."

"That wasn't flattery, that was honesty."

"Well, I appreciate the honesty, then. _However_, I was sayin' something."

"Right. You slept with me because I apologized."

His brow is a little furrowed, like he's missing the logic of it. "Because you were an adult about it," she corrected. "And I've grown a new appreciation for men acting like adults over the last few months."

"Ah." Now he gets it. "I see. Maturity not Cooper's strong suit since the breakup?"

"Maturity was never his strong suit," she tells him. "He's just been worse about it since the breakup. And the two of you, fighting in the break room… I was afraid I was battin' zero."

He tilts his head, and there's that furrow in his brow again. She almost thinks it's cute. "Batting zero?"

"The men I get involved with tend to turn out…. not how I thought they would. Cooper is petty and small, Scott was popping pills, my husband… well, that's, uh, that's…" _Private_, she thinks, and moves ahead, "And then there _you_ were, wrestling with my ex-boyfriend in the office kitchen of all places. I was thinkin' I really know how to pick 'em. So an apology is good."

"That's all it takes?"

She smirks, shrugs a shoulder. "An apology's a mark of a strong man, if you ask me. Don't knock it."

The smile he gives her is genuine, appreciative, and it's easy to smile back. "Well, thank you."

"And thank you," she replies, before shifting onto her back again and stretching lazily. She catches him watching and winks playfully, earns herself a chuckle. The sweat is cooling on her skin, so she tugs at the sheets until she can slip under. When he moves to join her, she tells herself that they'll go another round in a minute, so there's no need to kick him out just yet. Truth be told, she likes his company; she might even let him spend the night this time. It's been a while since she got to start the day with a quick roll in the sheets.

When the covers are settled over them and she's busy trying to calculate out refractory periods and determine if it's too soon to straddle him again, he says, "Your husband what?"

"Huh?" She'd mentally moved on from that bit of chatter, so it takes her a second to figure out why Travis was even up for discussion. She catches up right around the time he reminds her.

"He didn't turn out how you thought," he says. "How so?"

"Oh, he, uh… He just… didn't." She can feel her pulse pick up, pounding a steady _thudthudthud_ that she can feel in her neck, hear in her ears.

"He just didn't?" Sheldon raises his brows slightly, and Charlotte swallows hard. Her mouth is suddenly dry, and her tongue feels sticky and big.

"I don't usually talk about him. Ever, actually. And last time I did, I got dumped, so…"

"For talking about your ex?"

"Well. For not mentioning him until Coop and I had been dating for, oh, two years." There's a loose string on the hem of these sheets, and she catches herself tugging nervously at it, then makes the conscious effort to smooth it flat. Stupid.

"Ah."

"Yeah. I'm a big ol' liar." She traces the hem with her fingertip again. "According to him, anyway."

"Why did you wait so long?"

"Didn't want to talk about it." Now all she can look at is that damned string, and she just wants to tug at it again, pull it until it unravels stitch by stitch.

"And can I guess from the way you're not looking at me that you still don't?"

Charlotte doesn't answer. She's not sure how. Truth is, her marriage, her divorce, her ex… they've been on her mind a lot, lately. More often than ever in the last year, and damned near nonstop since she's had Cooper throwing 'em in her face on a constant basis. No matter how hard she tries to brush the thoughts aside, she can't stop tugging at 'em.

"Charlotte," Sheldon says, and his palm is warm on her shoulder. She wraps the thread idly around her fingertip. "I won't push you to talk, but I want you to know that you can. You can talk to me about anything. Anything at all, okay?"

Charlotte glances up, meets his eyes for the first time in a solid minute, maybe even two, and she likes what she sees. Likes it enough that she believes what he's saying is true. She twines the string more tightly around her finger and gives it a good yank.

"I always wanted to play the guitar. When I was five, my brother got one for his birthday, and I was obsessed. Used to steal it all the time, try to play it. Pissed him off somethin' fierce. Momma, too. Big Daddy'd said something about me being naturally talented, so she was worried I'd go running off to Nashville and wasting my life, or some such nonsense. Said if I wanted to play an instrument, I could play something respectable like the piano. Leave the guitars to the boys. So, I took twelve years of piano lessons, hated and loved every minute. And when I was 17, I spent the summer between my senior year of high school and first year at Yale with my best friend, Jen, who lived in Atlanta and had met Todd, who she said was like God's gift to music. If it had strings, he could play it. And just my luck, he had a brother."

"Naturally."

"Naturally," she nods. "Travis Evans. A few years older, but just as talented, just as handsome, just as down-home Southern Gentlemanly as his brother. And he thought me not being allowed to play the guitar was horribly unfair, so he sat me down, taught me three chords on the spot, and that was it. I was head-over-heels, stupid-in-love with him by the first chorus of 'Brown-Eyed Girl' - which, of course, he changed to 'Green-Eyed Girl' just for me."

Sheldon chuckles, and to her surprise, Charlotte finds herself smiling, too. She's still anxious, her belly still knotted with nerves, and she's pretty sure not all of the sweat on her skin is from sex, but every word seems to be a little easier than the last.

"So we dated all through college, got married right after med school. My parents hated him. But, man, I loved him. In that first-big-love way, you know? It wasn't perfect, we had our struggles, but it was good. Great, even. We were happy. Had a house, and a dog, and all that. And then I found out I was pregnant. And I was thrilled. I mean, the timing wasn't great – I was two years into my residency, but... I wanted it. The family, and the two-point-five kids and the picket fence. All of it. We were living the dream..."

She pauses, hesitates, looks away. Those things, the happy things, those are the ones she can share. It's the rest of the story that is painful, and private, and reason enough to keep Travis Evans and Atlanta a secret from the second love-of-her-life for damned near two years. Maybe she doesn't want to talk about this after all. Maybe some strings aren't meant to be tugged.

But Sheldon is quietly persistent; she's not surprised by that. "And then the dream ended," he supplies, skimming his fingertips down her arm in a touch she's sure he means to be soothing, but she doesn't want to be soothed. She doesn't want to be comforted; she just wants to get through this. So she shrugs him off, trains her eyes on the ceiling, and traces the lines of the light fixture there.

"Yeah." She takes a deep breath, and it catches somewhere in her throat. Words aren't coming so easy now. "Miscarried at fourteen weeks." Her pulse is pounding hard again, and she can feel tears burning at the back of her eyes. She _will not_ cry in front of him, she tells herself. She _will not_. She can see his hand flutter around her arm again, but he doesn't touch her. She adds that to the growing list of things she likes about him -- he's good at taking a hint. "It was awful. Devastating. I cried, alot. For days. Weeks. And then we got in this fight about, uh… dishes. He hadn't done the dishes. But it wasn't really about the dishes, y'know? Just about..." She shakes her head a little, shrugs.

"Everything?"

"Yeah." She turns her head to look at him again, and a tear slips free before she can help it. She wipes it roughly away, and blinks hard trying to clear her eyes, growling her frustration quietly.

"Ignore them," he tells her. "Just keep talking."

Charlotte bites her lips together so tightly they ache, then shakes her head. "No, I, uh… I'm gonna… I don't want…" She can't find any damned words now, and it's pissing her off. She threads her fingers through her hair and fists them there, stares hard into the light until her eyes are watering from light and lack of blinking, not stupid, useless vulnerability.

"I don't know about you," Sheldon begins, and he waits until she flicks her glance to him briefly before finishing, "But I'm a little thirsty. Are you thirsty?"

"What?"

"I could go for an ice water, maybe even one of your martinis." He shrugs, makes this face like everything is casual, like she didn't just bare her soul to him, and Charlotte isn't sure whether to laugh or cry some more. He's giving her an out. She could kiss him for this. Could, and would, is more than willing to do all sorts of wonderful and naughty things to him in thanks for this. She'll make him as many damned martinis as he wants.

"Well, I can't very well make martinis naked," she says, trying for casual herself, but it doesn't quite work when her voice is still wobbly.

"Oh, I bet you could." He grins, all cheeky and teasing, and she actually laughs at him.

"Yeah, you'd like that, huh?" She does kiss him now, quick and teasing, before slinking out of bed and snagging her panties from the floor, tugging them back on before shrugging into her robe. He doesn't bother with more than his pants, leaves the belt undone even, and she thinks that's just fine.

He gets the ice water from the kitchen; she mixes martinis and stitches her dignity back together in the dining room. They don't talk much, at least not until after she's chugged a whole glass of water and half her martini. She feels herself again, steady on her feet, tears firmly at bay, so she starts again.

"So."

"So?"

She swipes her finger along the rim of her glass, studies the curl of her garnish. "We got in this fight."

He smiles like he's grateful she's talking again, like he genuinely wants to hear what she has to say. Takes a sip of his own drink and says, "Right."

"And somewhere along the line...he, uh... Well, he blamed me. Said maybe if I'd taken it easy, hadn't been such a damned workaholic, had just slowed down..." She takes a deep swallow, savors the taste of it as she feels the tension creep back into her. Bearable now, though. "And, y'know, I'd been thinkin' the same thing. Because you do, when you lose a baby. You think of everything you could have done..." Charlotte's made a point to do all her grieving in private these days. She reserves her one day a year to wallow and feel the loss, but that's it. She's not sure how to handle herself now, not sure how to disguise the grief when she's this exposed. Drinking seems to be working for now, so she sips again. "My only job -- the only job that should have mattered -- was keeping that baby safe, and I failed it. And failed Travis, and myself."

"Charlotte, you didn't-"

"Oh, I know. I know. I mean, miscarriages happen, and I know that. But back then, in the thick of it... You just need someone to blame, so of course I blamed myself, and havin' him say it just made it worse. So I went to Jen's for a while, let her talk me down. Told me people say and do hurtful, stupid things when they're grieving and I should go home, work it out. So I did, and, uh..." She rushes the words like it will make them easier when she says, "I got home, and walked in on him screwing his best friend on the sofa."

"Oh." She hazards a glance at him, and he looks sympathetic but not somuch that she wants to punch him in the face or anything, so that's something. "Ouch."

Her laugh sounds rough and bitter even to her. "Yeah. Ouch. So I divorced him. Filed the next week."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Didn't want to hear excuses, didn't want to reconcile, I didn't care if he was grieving or hurting or anything. He'd cheated, and I thought that was unforgivable. I thought you don't cheat on someone you love, and if you do, then you must not have loved them enough. Never, ever imagined, no matter how bad things might have gotten, that he'd ever cheat. He just wasn't the cheatin' type. 'Til he was."

"Can I make an observation?"

She chuckles again, dryly. "Sure, why not. I already told you my whole life story. Might as well get the commentary."

"You're using past tense – you _thought_ it was unforgivable, you _thought_ you don't cheat on someone you love." Bingo. He really is good. "Do you not think those things anymore?"

Charlotte debates telling him, but only for a second – after all, he already knows her biggest, baddest hurt. Might as well just lay some more on him.

"I cheated on Cooper. About a year ago." She takes a deep breath, then a generous sip, trying to drown the slightly sick feeling she always gets when she has to deal with this particular indiscretion. "Things were bad, and I was hurtin'. Wrong person said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and… I did it. It seemed the thing to do."

"Mm. But you loved him."

"Terribly."

"So you look at your husband now, and you think…?"

She shrugs again. "I don't know. That I was naïve? When Travis cheated, I thought I must have been such a fool not to see him for who he was, sooner. He and Trish were best friends for years; she was around all the time. _We_ were friends. And all of a sudden, everything just looked different. Had he loved her all along and I was just stupid? All those years, they'd be off in some other town, playing gigs together and I'd be sitting at home, waitin' for him to come back. Were they together the whole time, or...?"

"Were they? Together?"

"Well, see now, that's the thing." She's drained her drink already, so she moves to make another. What the hell, right? It's not like she has to worry about getting drunk and sleeping with the wrong guy or anything. "I don't know. I didn't want to know. Didn't want to talk. I wanted a divorce. So now, I... don't know. Anything."

"And you want to."

Charlotte shrugs, pours alcohol into the shaker. "I do, and I don't. Part of me… Nevermind."

"No, come on." He gestures with his glass while she shakes. "This is good, talking is good. Part of you what?"

She pours before she answers; taste-tests and garnishes and sits. "Part of me would rather believe he was like I was when I cheated. Just a perfect storm, y'know? I think… if he wasn't that way, if he really loved her… I'd rather not know."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"What do you have to lose?"

"What do you mean?"

"By finding out – what do you have to lose? Maybe he was just a jerk, maybe he was cheating on you the whole time, but you survived it. You picked yourself up, moved yourself along, and made a successful life for yourself. So even if you found out that the truth is exactly what you fear, what do you have to lose?"

"Aside from my dignity?" She doesn't let him answer, just barrels on ahead. "Besides, it's a moot point. We haven't talked since he signed the papers, and I fell out of touch with most of our friends over the last six years. Wouldn't even know how to get in touch with him."

"Most, but not all?"

"Sheldon." She levels him with a look. "Drop it. I'm not calling up my ex to ask him… what? Did you really love me? Did she mean anything or was it just you behaving badly in your grief? Did you mean what you said?"

"Why not?"

"I already told you why not."

"Screw dignity," he shrugs, drinking again, and she wonders if maybe she made his martini a little too strong. "Focus on closure. Sometimes in order to get closure, we have to give up a little dignity and pride. Humble ourselves."

"And you want me to humble myself in front of Travis Evans?" she asks, one brow arched.

Sheldon just shrugs. "I want you to be happy. And I don't think you should let anyone – not even yourself – get in the way of that."

It's not bad advice, outside of the context, she thinks. But she's still not picking up that phone and dialing Georgia, that's for damned sure. And the second drink is making her feel relaxed and just a touch buzzed, so she slinks down her seat a little and runs her toe up his calf. "You know what makes me happy?"

She can tell by the way his brow raises that he knows exactly what makes her happy, and it's not more than five minutes before they're back upstairs, barely making it to the bed (again) in their rush to get back down to business. Charlotte makes a point not to think about anything other than right now, for the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlotte wakes up without cold feet for the first time in weeks. In fact, she's sprawled half out of the covers, the skin of her ankle just a little sweaty where it's crossed over someone else's. She smiles just a little, rubs her foot against Cooper's, then blinks her eyes open to Sheldon's face. _Right_, she thinks. And, _Crap_.

She hopes she recovers well, because Sheldon is staring right at her. Which, come to think of it, is damned disconcerting.

Her voice is scratchy with sleep, but she still manages to tinge it with derision when she says, "You were _not _just watching me sleep."

"Good morning to you, too," he greets, smiling and cheerful like that's the way people ought to be in morning. "And I wasn't watching, I was just… thinking about what you said last night. Pondering, I guess."

She shakes her head, wipes a hand over her face and yawns. "It is too early for this."

"It just explains a lot."

She arches one eyebrow pointedly, and wishes he'd just shut up. This is what you get for talking to people.

"You make sense, in context," he tells her. "That's all. The animosity with Violet, not being comfortable with Cooper living with-"

"Sheldon," she warns, wide awake now. "Last night was good; don't ruin it by talking."

"Right. Sorry." He hesitates for a second, then leans in and presses a kiss to that sensitive spot on her neck that he discovered last night, and she's just glad his mouth is busy. If she wanted therapy with her sex, she'd screw Violet. (It's unfair, she knows – she was more than willing to talk last night, but, well… that was last night.)

"Make it up to me," she murmurs, and they're just getting into the swing of things when her alarm chirps shrilly. "Damnit," she sighs, reaching to shut it up. She squints at the time and frowns. "My alarm's not set to account for morning sex." A little shove and Sheldon is rolling off of her. "And I'm a shower hog."

"Well, then, I suppose I'll make some breakfast." He sounds a little put-out, but she figures he'll get over it. And sure enough, he's cracking a smile again by the time she's out of bed, adding, "I hope you like toast."

"Breakfast of champions," she mutters, before heading for the bathroom.

She turns the water to scalding, tries to focus on the heat of it against her skin, but her mind keeps drifting back to what he'd said last night. To thoughts of Travis, of answers. Of hearing his voice again, maybe letting him make some of those excuses he'd tried so hard to make after everything went to hell in a hand basket years ago. She's so damned sick of having all of this nag at her.

She feels only marginally more pleasant when she makes her way to the kitchen, and by the smell of it, Sheldon's managed to burn at least one batch of toast. She thinks for a second that this better not become a serious thing, or they'll probably both starve. He's bobbling two fresh, hot pieces when she walks into the room, plunking them down onto a plate and blowing on his fingertips to cool them. Charlotte can't help but laugh.

"Little warm for ya, Sheldon?"

"A tad," he shrugs, before setting the plate in front of her. "What's your poison? Butter? Jelly? Peanut butter?"

"Peanut butter," she answers with a nod and a little smile. "But I can do it myself."

"Of course." He hands her a knife and the jar, watches her unscrew the cap. "Listen, Charlotte. I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to…overstep."

She waves him off, shakes her head, and slathers a heavy layer of peanut butter onto her breakfast. "Don't worry about it. Shower's yours if you want it, but I still need to dry my hair, throw some makeup on my face."

"I can wait," he tells her, lifting his own toast – butter and jam, she notices – and taking a bite. They chew in silence for a few minutes, and it's almost awkward.

"Do you really think I should—" Charlotte sighs heavily, sucks a little peanut butter from the roof of her mouth, then looks at Sheldon. "You think I should call him?"

"Do _you_ think you should call him?"

"That is such a shrink thing to say."

"Well." He points to himself, shrugs, and gives her a look that plainly says "what do you expect?"

"You weren't wrong. About my past causing problems with me and Cooper." She dabs a few crumbs onto her fingertip, licks them off. "Do you think I need closure?"

"Do you-"

"So help me God, Sheldon, do not ask me if I think I need it. I'm asking your opinion… as a professional, okay?"

"Okay…" He sets down his toast, takes a sip of coffee. "My professional opinion is that closure is never a bad thing, and letting your past rule your life usually is. So yes. If you were my client, I would recommend you confront your past head-on, find the answers to the questions that have been bothering you, and deal with those answers, whatever they may be."

Charlotte chews the last of her toast and nods slowly. "I appreciate the advice. And now I'm going to go dry my hair."

She leaves him there in the kitchen, and still doesn't have a damned clue what to do about Travis.


	3. Chapter 3

It's three days later, and Charlotte feels like an idiot. A complete and total idiot. A complete and total idiot who has spent – no joke – the last twenty minutes staring at her best friend's number on her cell phone, unable to dial. Jen's the easiest link, she knows that. She knows that Jen and Todd had an amicable split, and that Jen will know how to get in touch with Travis. She also knows she is horrible about keeping in touch with Jen, and that they'll have to spend at least an hour playing catch-up on what's been going on in each others' lives for the last couple of months. And quite frankly, she's afraid she might lose her nerve before she gets around to even asking for the number. Not to mention the fact that Jen will want to know _why_ she's asking, and then they'll have to talk about _that_.

Maybe she just shouldn't call him. Maybe she doesn't actually need closure. Or, more accurately, maybe she can make her own damned closure. Just decide to be fine with it all. This was their lot in life, this is how things went down, and that's that.

Until she ends up in another relationship where she feels like she can't open her mouth and give too much away, or she'll get her heart cut out again. Damnit.

Damnit.

Okay. Okay. She can do this. She can. Her thumb hovers over the SEND button, palm sweaty where it cradles the phone. She hesitates. She waits. "Oh for God's sake," she hisses. "You're being ridiculous. Make the goddamned call."

She settles her thumb on the button, feels the smooth plastic against her skin, and panics. Before she knows what the hell she's doing, her fingers are fluttering over the keypad, punching in ten digits that used to be hers. The likelihood of him still having their home phone is slim, and she hopes (dreads?) that some stranger will pick up the line. One more thing to make her feel like an idiot, she guesses. The phone rings once, twice, and she actually feels lightheaded. Another ring, one more, and then his voice comes over the line.

"You've reached Travis and Dasher-" there's a quick whistle, then the low sound of a dog barking in the background and Charlotte's grin is instant. "We're not home right now. Leave us a message and we'll get right back to ya. Take care."

Another bark, and then there's a beep and Charlotte's throat goes dry. She's not sure how long she waits before she says something, just hopes it's short enough he doesn't delete the message on the spot. "Hey, Travis. It's me. Uh, it's Charlotte. I just… I was wondering if we could, um… Y'know what, just call me. When you can. Please. Um… that's it, I guess. Bye."

She presses END, and her fingers are shaking, so she beelines to the kitchen for a martini. It isn't until she closes her eyes to go to sleep that she realizes she never left a callback number.

**.:.**

Sheldon is hovering in her office, consulting on a client of his when Stacy at the front desk comes over the intercom. "Dr. King, I have a Travis Evans for you on line four."

She drops her pen, which lands directly in her coffee mug, splashing droplets of brown liquid on her white sleeve. She couldn't care less. Sheldon is looking at her with raised brows, but wisely saying nothing.

"Dr. King?" Stacy asks again.

"I'll take it," she barks, harsher than she meant, and she feels like a swarm of bees is buzzing in her ears when she picks up the phone. This is goddamned ridiculous. She presses a shaky fingertip to line four, and says, "Charlotte King."

"Hey." He sounds exactly like she remembers, and yet not. She wonders if he thinks the same thing. "It's Travis."

"I-I forgot to leave you a number." Idiot. Stupid, stupid, of course he knows that, idiot.

"Yeah, I, uh," she can hear the smile in his voice, "I Googled you."

The realization that he has found her here, at her practice, where she works a sexologist (complete with an informative, advice-giving, Q&A answering website), makes her blush clear down to her collar for reasons she can't quite explain. Been a while since _that _happened.

"Right. Of course you did. Great."

"I don't want to bother you at work, I just need a number I can reach you at. Later. When you're free."

"How about I call you tonight when I get off?" she asks, then stammers, "When I'm free, I mean. When I'm done with work." Oh Jesus, she really just said that. This is just getting worse and worse.

"I'm not in Georgia right now," he tells her. "Working out of town for a bit. Just give me your number, Lola." Her breath catches at the nickname. No one has called her that since Big Daddy died, and to add more mortification onto the steaming pile she is standing in right now, she feels tears prick her eyes immediately. Dear. Sweet. Jesus. "Charlotte," he says quickly, and she realizes he's correcting himself, and that she hasn't said anything in damned near half a minute. So much for dignity.

"3105550416."

"Okay, one more time – just a little slower, please."

He's smiling again, she can hear it, and she's still bright red. "Don't you laugh at me, Travis."

"I'm not laughing at you," he swears, adding, "My hand to God."

Charlotte clears her throat, takes a deep breath. "310. 555. 0416."

"Thank you. When you home from work?"

"Eight. Ish."

"Call you at nine?"

"Okay."

"Charlotte?"

"Mm?"

"It's good to hear your voice."

"Yeah, um… Yeah, you too. Bye."

"Goodbye."

The phone rattles back into its cradle and Charlotte drops her head into her hands, rakes her fingers into her hair and fists them there, before she feels a pair of hands settle onto her shoulders. She'd completely forgotten Sheldon was even in the room.

"That was awful."

"It was fine," he assures, thumbs digging in firm circles.

"You're a horrible liar."

"I'm not lying."

"I think I need a Valium. Or twelve."

"You're _fine_," he insists again, pressing his thumbs up the sides of her neck now, then back down. "Would you like me to be there when he calls—"

"_No_. No. Absolutely not."

"Alright. Okay. Just offering."

She looks at her calendar and curses. Her hands are still shaking with nerves. "I have a patient in fifteen minutes."

"Do you want to get some air? Take a walk around the block?"

"No, I want you to get the blinds, and take your clothes off. Now."

"Charlotte?"

"Now, Sheldon."

"Charlotte, I know you're upset—"

"I'm not upset, I'm stressed."

"—but I don't think sex is—"

She spins her chair around and yanks his mouth down to hers before he can stop her, and it doesn't take him long to come around to her point of view.


	4. Chapter 4

By eight forty-five, Charlotte has had exactly three bites of a Lean Cuisine, and an entire martini. She'd meant to pace herself – pour herself one drink, at eight thirty, and sip it slowly while she ate. By the time the phone rang, she'd be finishing the drink and have enough in her to relax a bit, but not so much that she'd feel buzzed or sloppy. But she's just been sitting here, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring and battling the waves of nervous nausea that make every bite of food more daunting than the one before. The gin is going down just fine, though – _like mother, like daughter_, she thinks – and so she's dry fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, and on an empty stomach no less.

She's not drunk, but she's definitely feeling the buzz, and her fingers still itch to pour another. There's a certain irony, she thinks, in Travis driving her to drink, now, six years on, when she managed to make it through their divorce without disappearing into a bottle. A liquor bottle, anyway. The sleeping pills hadn't been a good coping mechanism for heartbreak – that's what she'd called them, then. A coping mechanism. Like she'd been doing anything resembling coping. Drowning, more like, if she was honest – which she was, with herself, most of the time. It was other people she kept the secrets from.

And look how well that's turned out.

When the phone rings, she startles so hard she knocks her glass over, garnish tumbling out and over to rest next to her lukewarm dinner. She fumbles for the phone, presses talk, and thinks she might hurl.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"…Hi."

She hears the bees in her head again, and marvels at the fact that she's actually capable of this level of nerves. She really thought she'd outgrown this during college.

There's silence for a moment, and she doesn't know how to fill it. Does she just come right out with it? Should she wait for him to ask why she called? Is she completely, absolutely, utterly insane for making the call in the first place?

She can feel her breath coming faster, feel her chest tightening, and she will not – _will not_ – have a panic attack. Not right now. Absolutely not.

"How was work?" he asks her, finally, breaking the silence, and she manages a tight, "Good," and "You?" He makes a noncommittal noise, then says, "Not bad. I'm in the studio later this week, so I spent the day learning new stuff."

"You still, uh – you still play?" Small talk. Small talk she can do. This is good. This is okay.

"Of course," he tells her, pointing out, "You're still a doctor."

"No, I know – I mean, I didn't mean–"

"I didn't figure you did." She's just thinking how unfair it is that he sounds so damned relaxed when he adds, "I'm just… I'm not really sure what to say here, Charlotte. It's been a long time, and I'm, ah... I guess I'm trying to fill the air until we get to whatever it is you need to talk about." A pause, and then, "I honestly never thought I'd hear from you again."

"Well." She tries to swallow but her mouth is bone-dry now, and she's staring down the gin again. "I had no intention of ever calling you, so that's… fair."

"But you did."

"Yeah. I did."

"Well, I reckon whatever you need to talk about is important then, yeah?"

"No," she says quickly. Then, "Yes. In the grand scheme of things, probably not, but, I – I'm sorry, I'm just… I'm bad at this. I'm – you're here, on the phone, and it's surreal, and I'm just… bad. I don't know why I even called."

"Yes, you do."

"What?"

"You were many things, Charlotte, but you were never particularly impulsive. Not when it came to anything that might pick at old emotional scabs, anyway. You didn't call on a whim. I was kinda worried someone had died."

"No." She reaches for the gin, rights her glass, and pours. "Nobody died." She thinks of Big Daddy, and adds, "Not lately, anyway."

"Well, then… out with it. If it's important enough to break a six year silence, might as well not make it wait."

"I just – I'm with – I—" She can't find the words, can't figure out a damned thing to say, and it's humiliating. She gulps a swallow of straight gin, and doesn't wince. The slight burn is a welcome distraction.

"Lola." He says it the way he always did when she was upset – low, and soothing, and just a little bit like he doesn't really know what to do with her. Then he corrects, "Charlotte," and adds, "Just talk. It's just me."

Charlotte scoffs, shakes her head. "It's just you?"

"Yes."

"You cheated on me."

"I know."

"With your best friend."

"I know."

"After we lost our—" Her voice hitches and she clamps her jaw shut tight. Shit. Goddamn it, this was a bad idea.

"Yeah," he says, so quietly she almost misses it. "I'm not proud of it. And I'm sorry – you know I am. I apologized 'til I was blue back then."

"I didn't want to hear it." She manages to keep her voice even – thank heaven for small miracles.

"I remember."

"I want to hear it now." She wavers just a little on that one, bites her lips together hard to keep the tears at bay. Stupid, ridiculous, how did she even get talked into this? Sheldon? Sheldon is a dead man next time she sees him, that's for damned sure.

It occurs to her that he's been silent for a few moments now. "Travis?"

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Why?" Her vision blurs a little, but she blinks the tears back before they can fall. "I just – _Why, _Travis?"

She hears him suck in a breath, let it out slowly. "I wish I had a good answer for that."

"That's not an answer."

"Yeah, I know that—"

"So answer the damned question—"

"I'm trying to," he insists, and she can hear the frustration in his voice. Well, fine. Good, then. Good that it's not just her who's thrown by all this.

"Not very hard," she mutters, and she can hear him let out another heavy sigh.

"Charlotte, will you just stop talking for a minute?" he bites. "Please?"

"Fine," she mutters, twirling the stem of her glass slowly while she waits. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not gonna – Christ, Charlotte. You think this is easy for me? Talkin' to you right now? Having to explain myself? I cheated on my wife. I blamed losing our baby on her and then I cheated and her, and—"

"Yeah, I remember, I was there."

"Damnit, Charlotte! Will you stop? Be upset, okay? It's upsetting stuff, so be upset, but stop snipping at me to cover it up."

"I am not snipping at you to cover up anything—"

"Yeah, Lola, you are. We were together for eight years, you think I don't know when you're—"

"Well, we're not together now, so will you just answer the damned question?" she demands, feeling her temper rise.

"I don't know!"

"You don't know? You've had six years to mull it over, Travis, and you don't know why?"

"I was upset!"

"So was I, but I still managed to keep it in my pants."

"Will you – God, you're frustrating. Just – let me – I was upset, okay? I said things to you that I didn't mean, that were unfair, and you left, and I called Trish – not for sex, just to talk – and poured myself a drink. And then another, and another. And… I was upset, and you'd left – in tears, I might add – and she was… there. I don't know. We were talking, and drinking, and then it just… happened. And before you make some crack about tripping and falling on it—"

"Did you love her?" She sounds quiet, and vulnerable and she hates it.

"What?"

Charlotte sits up a little straighter, even though he can't see her, and steels her voice before she asks, "Were you in love with her?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No. I was in love with you."

"And what? You couldn't have been both?"

"That's not what I meant – I wasn't both, okay? I wasn't both. I was in love with you. Just you."

She's mollified just a little by that, and wonders if maybe she should tell him that she knows what it's like to not have good reasons. To be upset, and at your wit's end, and to have it just… happen. Instead, what she says is, "Did you mean what you said about the baby?" Her voice pitches up a little at the end, and she swallows hard against a lump in her throat.

"No." He sounds pained now, too, and she wishes he didn't. She wishes he'd get mad again, because if he's sympathetic and kind, she thinks she'll fall apart. "No, of course I didn't mean it. I was just mad, and grieving, and needed someone to blame, something to hurt like I hurt, and–"

"I _did_ hurt like you," she says – gasps, really, because she's slipping, she's losing it. The ache in her chest is rising and she feels the first few tears slip down her cheeks, and this is bad. This is going to be bad.

"I know. I know you did, junebug." She can tell by the shift in tone that he can hear the tears, that he's trying to keep her from crying. "I was wrong. I was wrong to say it, and I didn't mean it. Please don't cry."

"I did hurt—" She hitches a breath. "—like you h—" Another. "I have to have to hang up."

"Charlotte – no. Junebug, please, don't hang up on me."

"I have to – I can't – Please, Travis."

"You have to call me back, y'hear?" He's anxious now, almost frantic, and Charlotte just wants off the phone because she can't rein it in, she can't hold it back anymore. "If you don't call back in fifteen minutes, I'm calling you. Okay? Fifteen minutes, Lola."

"Okay," she manages, and she can't push END fast enough. The phone clatters to the table and she's gone, lost, hitching up sobs and pressing the heels of her hands against eyes that won't stop crying. She doesn't know if it's relief, or grief, or just six years of pent-up… stuff. But she's crying so hard her throat hurts, and she's never been more glad that she has the house to herself because she'd rather die than have to explain a crying jag like this to Violet.

She hears him over again in her head – "It just happened" "Just you" "Of course I didn't mean it" – puts the words on repeat while she tries to pull herself back together. It wasn't her. It was all a mistake. Bad behavior, bad timing, bad decisions. It wasn't her. It wasn't her fault.

She's almost pulled together when the phone rings again, but her voice is sandpapery from crying when she answers, and the first thing out of her mouth probably surprises him as much as it surprises her: "I should have forgiven you."

"You – what?"

"I should have let you explain, and I should have tried harder. So I'm sorry, too."

"Charlotte… What happened to us wasn't your fault. It was mine. I made the mistakes."

"But I walked. I didn't forgive. I didn't know—" Her breath hitches again. "—how. So it wasn't just you. It was both of us. We broke our vows."

"Yeah," he scoffs. "Did a bang-up job of that."

For a minute, they don't talk. She listens to the sound of his breath coming over the line, and let's herself feel raw and split open. This emotional scab has been good and well picked, and they both just need to bleed a little, she thinks. Finally, she tells him, "I cheated on my ex. About a year ago. We had a rough patch, and I was… upset. And this other guy was there, and it just… happened." She hears a dry, humorless chuckle come over the line. "So I think I get it now. I thought… For a long time, I thought cheating wasn't something you did to someone you love, but now I know better. And it got me thinking, about us. I just needed to know for sure. Needed to hear from you what really happened."

"That's why you called."

"Mmhmm."

"Well. Now you know. I don't want you blaming yourself, though. What I did – losing you – that's the biggest mistake I ever made, Lola. And it kills me that you had to wait this long to know that. That you still had doubts. I hate that."

"Well, you know." She forces a chuckle, tries to lighten the situation. "I was always stubborn."

"Yeah, that's for damned sure," he mutters, and she thinks maybe she can hear a smile.

"I miss you," she blurts, flushing a little at the outburst. "Y'know. Sometimes."

"I know the feeling." They lapse into silence again, and Charlotte wonders if they're running out of things to talk about, or just emotionally spent. When they speak again, it's at the same time – "You can always call, you know," and "I forgive you," overlapping before they say in unison, "What?"

"I forgive you," she tells him, and she feels a little better just for saying it. "I wanted to make sure I said it before we hang up."

"Thank you," he says, quietly, and she suspects he thinks he's undeserving. She knows the feeling well. "Is that my cue to say goodnight?"

"Soon," she says. "But not yet."

"Okay."

"What did you say?"

"I said 'okay.'"

"No, before – we when spoke at the same time. What did you say then?"

"Oh. I just said you could call if you wanted. Whenever."

"Oh."

"You know, if you don't want to miss me."

Charlotte's lips curl into a smile, and she shakes her head a little. "Mm. Well then, I guess you can call me too. If you don't want to miss me. Maybe."

"I'll have to do that. And if you want – I didn't say this before, because you were already kind of a mess—"

"Thanks," she mutters with a roll of her eyes.

"Welcome. Anyway – I'm recording here. In LA." Charlotte freezes, feels her stomach drop a little bit. "I'm in town for the next couple of months, so if you wanted to maybe, I don't know, grab dinner or something. It'd be good to see your face."

Charlotte takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and presses a hand to her suddenly racing heart. "I'm not sure that's… Let me think about it, okay?"

"Yeah, of course. I don't want to push, I just wanted to put it out there."

"Okay. I should go."

"Alright. Thanks for calling, and letting me say my piece, finally."

"It was a long overdue conversation. I need to go," she tells him again.

"Yeah. Okay. Goodnight, Charlotte."

"Goodnight."

Charlotte hangs up the phone, blows out a deep, deep sigh, and lifts her drink. She pauses before taking a sip, though, and realizes she doesn't really _need _it. She half considers getting up and just dumping it out, some kind of symbolic outpouring of something-or-other. But then she thinks that would be a waste of good gin. Instead, she carries it upstairs, pours herself a bubble bath, and sips slowly until the water goes cold.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well," Jen greets as soon as she answers the line. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Hey," Charlotte sighs, settling on the sofa with a martini, and the absent thought that if she keeps up drinking like this, she'll need a twelve-step program soon. "Just calling to catch up."

"Oh, yeah?" Jen doesn't sound particularly convinced.

"Yeah."

"Why don't I believe you?"

Charlotte blows out a breath, curls her legs up next to her on the sofa. "Because when it comes to you I'm a crap liar?"

"Ah, yes. That's why."

"But let's talk about you, first," Charlotte continues, taking a sip of her drink.

"Oh, so it's gonna be a long conversation, then?" Jen teases, and Charlotte rolls her eyes. "Gotta get in the selfless bit before you talk my ear off with whatever barrel of issues has you ringing me up?"

"Shut up."

"Not a chance, sugar."

Charlotte smirks a little, and asks, "How's work?"

"Work is good – we're in the studio right now, so I'm feeling very productive. And we're back out on tour in a few weeks. Can I expect to see you when we're in California, my friend?"

"Wouldn't miss it." She already has the date circled on her calendar. "How's the love life? Anything exciting for me to live through vicariously while I deal with all this crap?"

"Sadly, no. All's quiet on the bedroom front, at the mo'. I guess I'll have to do all the vicarious romantic living here. Speaking of, spill your guts, baby. Get to it. Lay it all on me."

Charlotte sighs heavily, slouching down a little bit on the sofa and reaching for her drink again. "I hate to give the impression that I only call when I need an ear to talk off. I'd call more often, but I know you're busy."

"Oh, please," Jen dismisses, and Charlotte can almost see the hand-wave from three thousand miles away. "If you call me more than once every six weeks, I begin to worry about your mental state. Besides, that's what friends are for – talkin' ears off. Especially during a break-up – and you are still broken up, yeah? You and Cooper didn't go gettin' back together again since the last time we talked, did ya?"

"No. No, definitely not." Another sip, and she savors this one for a second before she swallows.

"He still pissed about Travis?"

"No, he's not pissed about anything anymore. Even paid me back yesterday for the buy-in at the practice, and is being all mature, and civil, and all that."

"That bastard," Jen says, and Charlotte thinks she ought to make a point to call her best friend more often. She forgets sometimes how nice it is to have someone who doesn't need it explained why nice is not so nice after all.

"I know," Charlotte says. "He's… over me. Just done. I hate it. I hate him."

"Except that you don't."

"Okay, I prefer you when you're calling him names on my behalf. If I want someone to tell me how I'm still in love with the bastard, I'll call up Sheldon."

"Who in God's name is Sheldon, and why, pray tell, would you prefer him to your best friend since childhood?" Jen questions, but Charlotte can hear the teasing lightness in her voice and knows she's more nosy than put-out. "Does this Sheldon make himself a mean dandelion braid with the precision and style that I do? Did he teach you the choreography to every number in Dirty Dancing like I did? Did he hold your hair back while you puked up your body weight that weekend in Savannah, or help you seduce Travis in Key West during spring break? Hmm?"

"No," Charlotte chuckles, grinning now. Nobody does the best-friend guilt trip quite like Jen. "No, he didn't."

"No, he certainly did not."

"But he is very attentive in the bedroom," Charlotte teases. "Very eager to please."

"Are you sayin' I'm not, because, baby girl, songs have been written about my skills in the bedroom."

"Yeah, I just bet."

"It's true."

"I'm sure."

"Are you? Are you really?"

"Yes!" Charlotte laughs, setting her martini aside and stretching out fully on the couch, one leg dangling off so her foot still rests on the floor. "I'm sure you're fantastic, I'm just sayin' what have you ever done for me in that department, y'know?"

"Thankfully, nothin'. Now who's Sheldon?"

"He was one of Violet's baby-daddies – the one that wasn't the daddy. I helped him with a patient because Violet – who I live with now, by the way – is out of town—"

"Wait, wait. Pause. You live with Violet? When – and how – did this happen?"

"Ugh. Long story. Short version is she found out I was living out of my office and a hotel, and offered me her spare room until I get settled in my own place."

"I bet Cooper loved that," Jen drawls, and Charlotte suddenly wants nothing more than to be sitting around Jen's kitchen island, commiserating over pecan pie a la mode and heavily spiked Arnold Palmers like they used to.

"Oh yeah," Charlotte confirms, trying to wish away the sudden pang of homesickness. "Loved it. But he adjusted quick enough – showed up one night and gave me this whole holier-than-thou, 'you can live here and be friends with her,' look-how-big-I-am load of bull. I shut the door in his face."

Jen cackles on the other end of the line. "'Atta girl."

Charlotte chuckles a little, and tries to get back to the point. "Anyway. I helped Sheldon with his patient, and he came over to thank me. I invited him in for a drink, and he was all kind and funny and treating me like an actual person, which is nice. And I was lonely, and horny, so I kind of jumped his bones. And then I kept jumping his bones, because, y'know – lonely. Horny."

"Charlotte King," Jen sighs, "You have got to stop using sex to make yourself feel better."

Charlotte rolls her eyes. "Thank you. That is now the second time I've heard that today. First from Sheldon and now from you."

"Oh, so he was hip to the fact he was being used?"

"I wasn't using him, I was just… sleeping with him to make myself feel better." Because that sounds _worlds_ better, she thinks, tempted to eye roll at herself just to save Jen the trouble.

"Char?"

"Yes."

"That would be using him."

Charlotte heaves a sigh – she knows Jen is right. Hell, she knew Sheldon was right. Doesn't make it any more fun to own up to. In fact, she can think of a dozen things she'd rather talk about than Sheldon and Cooper and that whole mess, so she changes the subject to something she knows will get Jen off her back about this – for now, anyway. "I talked to Travis."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Travis. I called him."

There's silence for a moment, and then, "Your ex-husband Travis?"

"No, Travis Barker. Yes, my ex-husband Travis."

"And you're just bringing this up now? We've been on the phone how long – that should have been your lead-in."

"I was gettin' to it." Charlotte reaches for her drink again, swallowing down the twist of nerves she still gets whenever she talks about Travis, and feeling just a little bit smug about successfully rerouting the conversation.

"You were gettin' to it," Jen scoffs in echo. "Unbelievable. What brought this on?"

"Sheldon. Having a therapist as your rebound guy maybe not the best plan."

"Ooh," Jen exhales. "Honey, give me that man's address; I'm gonna send him a bouquet."

"Jen!"

"What? You know I've always said you should deal with that particular issue – especially since you've been tryin' to get your personal life back in good workin' order the last year or two. Anybody who can talk you into facing Travis head-on deserves some kind of prize in my book."

"Well, he got a whole lot of orgasms; I'm sure that's prize enough."

Jen snorts a little laugh, then asks, "What did you talk about?"

"The divorce. The cheating."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What happened?"

"We worked it out."

"You worked it out?"

"Mmhmm."

"You are impossible."

"What do you want me to say, Jen? We talked. He apologized, I listened, I forgave him. We're… I don't know. Fine now, I guess."

"Really." She can hear the satisfied smile in Jen's voice. "Well. I'm glad to hear that. He's been stuck in your craw for ages."

"Yeah. He has." Charlotte nabs her martini again, sits up a little to sip from it. "It's weird, though. Nice, but… weird. He's out here, recording, I guess. And he wants to maybe do dinner."

"Are you gonna go?"

"I don't know," she sighs, setting her drink aside again and letting her eyes drop shut. "I mean, it's Travis. Broke-my-heart-so-bad-I-moved-across-the-country Travis. "

"Yes."

"But it's also, y'know… Travis," Charlotte says, letting herself really feed fond of the man for the first time in a long time.

"Right."

"I'm just not sure I'm ready for face-to-face. I lost it on the phone—started crying so bad I had to hang up. It was humiliating. What if I see him and just can't hold it together?"

For once, Jen doesn't rib her over her "crying complex," as she calls it. (Jen's a big believer in the cathartic power of a good cry now and then; Charlotte just thinks they suck.) "You can. Nobody holds up better under pressure than you, sugar. You've got an emotional poker face to die for when you need it."

"Yeah, but Travis is different. He was always good at coaxing out the waterworks. I just wish I could see him without seeing him, y'know?"

"Well. Maybe you can."

"What do you want me to do? Stalk him around LA?"

"Maybe a little – you remember Eddie Hutton? He was friends with Todd, moved out to LA right after you and Travis got married."

"Vaguely."

"His guitarist broke his hand; Travis is subbing in until he can play again. Go see them play, hide in the back. You'll be able to see him but not really _see _him."

"And how do you know all this?"

"I ran into Todd; he had Dasher. Turns out he's dog sitting for a couple of months, so I asked where Travis was."

"And when was this?"

"Two weeks ago – and before you go all 'how come you didn't say something?' on me, I didn't tell you because I thought you had enough relationship crap on your plate right now without throwing your ex-honey back into the mix."

It's a fair excuse, Charlotte figures, and to be honest having Travis thrown at her before she was ready would have just stressed her out even more than she already was, so she decides to give Jen a pass. "Fine. I'll let it go – this time. But next time you hear about one of my exes banging around my neck of the woods, do be a dear and let a girl know. I about choked on my own tongue when he said he was here in town."

"Well, you don't have much in the way of serious exes, but I'll keep that in mind."

"Thank you."

"Anyway, I say go. Stalk him a little. See how you feel. If you feel good, try dinner. What's the worst that could happen?"

Charlotte's been asking herself the same thing for days, and while she prides herself on being someone who can take care of her own business, she doesn't mind the occasional reassurance. Still, she's had enough guy talk for one evening, so she reroutes the conversation again, and they move on to more comfortable ground. When they hang up the phone hours later, she feels better about things than she has in weeks. No less confused, but... better.


	6. Chapter 6

Crap. _Crap_. Damnit, damnit, damnit.

She's been here for five minutes, and walked in to discover she's timed it all wrong. Eddie's band is playing in this little dive bar tonight, and she managed to arrive just as they took a break. And of course, Travis beelined it for one end of the bar just as she was walking up to the other, so now she really does feel like she's stalking just a bit.

He looks up, almost in her direction and hollers something at someone a few feet to her right. Charlotte ducks her head a little and curses. _Great idea, Jen_, she thinks.

She glances up, her hair hiding her face just a bit, and the first thins she thinks when she gets a good look at him is that she remembers him being taller. He was always taller than _her_, certainly, but there's something about him now that seems off. She thinks maybe it's because she's spent the last few years with a guy who easily clears six feet, with a couple inches to spare, and if memory serves, Travis is just shy. She inches closer to the person next to her, leans into a shadow, and hopes not to be seen.

The bartender gives her a funny look as he comes to take her order, and she thinks she must be doing a horrible job of blending. "Awkward one night stand or fugitive from the law?" he teases.

"Ex-husband," she tells him, tossing a glance at Travis. "Tryin' to… y'know… hide."

"Got it," he chuckles, shifting until his body blocks hers completely, and Charlotte smiles gratefully. "What can I get you?"

She orders a beer – just a beer. She's driving and wants to have something in her hand to swallow down the nerves all night, but not something that will get her sloshed enough that she has to leave her car behind. It's not like she has anyone she can bum a ride to work with anymore.

The bartender brings her a whiskey shot with the beer – on the house, he tells her. She takes it gratefully, knocks it back and closes her eyes against the burn.

He points toward an empty table in the back. "Grab that one if you can. Good view of the stage, and you can still flag me if you need a refill."

Charlotte thanks him, leaves a very generous tip on the bar, then takes her beer and settles at the table. He's right – there's a clear line to the stage but a set of stairs casts enough of a shadow on the table that she's all but invisible unless you're looking for her. Perfect for stalking. Jen would be so proud.

The band is taking the stage again, and Charlotte takes a generous swallow as she watches Travis. He'd fiddling with his guitar, adjusting something, and at the angle he's standing all she can see is his profile. He looks good – older, maybe, but that's to be expected. He's still handsome enough to make her heart flutter a little, and as someone toward the front catches his attention, he lifts his head and winks. So still a flirt, too, though she hadn't expected that to change. Once a charmer, always a charmer, she figures.

He could use a haircut, she thinks, noticing the way his dark locks are starting to curl. Truth be told, she always loved when he let it grow a bit – more to run her fingers through in the sack – but it's just long enough now that he's starting to look a little sloppy. He's got a good six-o'clock-shadow going as well, and she has this sudden sense memory of him coming home late after gigs like this, and crawling into bed with her. He'd always nuzzle himself in close, and she'd wake up to the smell of beer and cigarettes, and the scrape of his whiskers against her nape as he kissed her goodnight. Her chest aches at the memory, and she takes another sip of beer in an attempt to relieve the sudden tightness in her throat.

The band starts to play, and her vague memory of Eddie Hutton suddenly sharpens into clear focus. She'd seen Travis and Todd play with him once before, ages ago, when she was still in med school, and while the names and faces had faded, she remembers this particular brand of bluesy rock very well. Or maybe she just remembers that it was that same weekend that Travis had smiled at her across the pillows of a Savannah hotel, and told her that when she married him, he wanted it to be here, on a riverboat. She'd blinked hard a few times, and asked if that was his way of proposing. Travis had grinned, told her, "Might be," and then shut her up with kisses before she could even tell him yes.

Tears prick her eyes and she bites her lips together hard, then lifts her beer and chugs, thinking she'll be lucky if she makes it through the rest of the set.


	7. Chapter 7

Sheldon Wallace believes in helping people get what they want – and more than that, what they need. Sometimes they need closure. Sometimes they need a sounding board. Sometimes they need psychotropic drugs.

And sometimes, as in the case of Charlotte King, they need to have their crutches taken away. Sure, it wasn't exactly easy for him. He was having a hell of a good time with her. A _hell _of a good time. She managed to blow the top right off him, metaphorically speaking, in only of a couple of weeks. Sheldon's no stranger to sex, but he'd never been with anyone like Charlotte before. Hell, half the time he felt like he was just trying to keep up with her – and it wasn't a bad feeling, to be honest. Not a bad feeling at all. But he's good at reading people, and Charlotte's poker face isn't as good as she thinks it is – their little affair was never really about him.

He really does feel bad – both for her, and for him. Her, because the last thing she probably needs while she's nursing a broken heart is rejection from her rebound guy. Him, because, well, being Charlotte's rebound is a hell of an experience, to say the least, and now it's over. So yes, he feels bad, but he stands by his decision. Stealing midday indiscretions to numb the pain of a broken heart doesn't solve anything, not in the long run. Especially when Sheldon firmly believes that she can have what she wants – assuming what she wants is Cooper Freedman – if she just bides her time, swallows her pride, and works for it a bit.

The only problem with the whole situation is that in the week since he decided to call things off between them, she's made her displeasure at the whole situation perfectly clear. He's no stranger to a cold shoulder, but Charlotte's is particularly chilly, and he suspects he may have actually hurt her feelings.

So today is a day to mend fences. Make amends. Bury hatchets, and all that.

He catches her in the kitchen, sipping coffee and staring at a patient's chart. He takes a moment to note that she's not so much reading as just staring blankly at the page and scowling a little – clearly, her mind is somewhere else.

He interrupts anyway. "Charlotte, I was wondering if I could have a word with you."

She looks up, scowl deepening, and he's pretty sure that look could be called a glare. "You just had several," she tells him, turning back to the charts she's not reading. Her words lack heat, though, and he thinks maybe it's worth pressing forward.

"Yes, I guess I did," he tells her, smiling gamely, trying to lighten the mood. "Any chance I could get several more?"

She sighs, sets her pen on top of the chart, and looks at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry, about last week – calling things off. I never meant to upset-"

"Change your mind, Sheldon?" she questions, and he can almost predict her next words before she says them: "Feelin' a little hard up already, eating your words to ask for another roll in the sack? Or desk, I suppose – that was really more our style."

"No," he tells her, and he can't quite read the shift of emotion on her face. "No, I still stand by what I said – I don't think medicating your pain with sex is—"

"Then get to the point, please," she interrupts. "I have sex lives to save, and hospitals to run. I don't have all day."

"You're beautiful. And smart. And I like you – I genuinely do. And what we had was… fun, and eye-opening, and… really, really great." He chuckles a little, if for no other reason than that he _still_ can't quite believe he got to have Charlotte King of all people the way – ways – he did. "And if I thought that I was what you wanted, I'd be back in that bed – or on that desk, or couch, or floor – in a heartbeat. But I'm not. We both know I'm not. You want him. And you should have him. Sleeping with me in the meantime isn't a solution. But I don't want this to come between us, on a professional level, or even on a personal level. I want us to—"

"I've been asked to do this sex ed seminar for a retirement home. Apparently there's been a spike in their STD rate and they want someone to come in and talk to the residents about the dangers of unprotected sex in their senior years."

"Charlotte-" he begins, hoping to direct her back to the topic at hand.

But then he catches the hint of a smirk on her lips, and she tells him, "But they've made a request – I need a male partner. Turns out a lot of men in that age group aren't particularly comfortable talking about their sexual problems with hot sexologists young enough to be their grandkids." The smirk turns into a self-satisfied smile, and he's pretty sure she's pleased to have thrown him a bit of a conversational curveball. "Care to help me out?"

"I could do that," he agrees slowly, pleased that she seems to have thawed the deep freeze she had them in, but a little baffled at her sudden turnaround. "Schedule permitting, of course. What's the date?"

"A few weeks out, whenever we can coordinate schedules," she says, reaching for her coffee. "Hell, all they've gotta do is fit us in between suppertime and bingo – they're not picky."

And look at that, she's even cracking a joke. Sheldon smiles at her, shakes his head in amusement. "We can compare schedules this afternoon." She sets down her mug, looks back to her charts. "Does this mean we're okay?"

Charlotte looks up and smiles at him, a little softer this time, and nods. "Yeah." She rolls her eyes. "We're fine. And I don't say this often – I'm only saying it to you because I respect you – and I won't be saying it more than once, so ears open. But you were right." She sighs, shakes her head like she's irritated with herself, or maybe him, or maybe both. "You're a good guy, you don't deserve to be… used like that."

"Well, there are worse ways to be used," he tells her, wiggling his brows a little, and she chuckles at him.

"I'm taking that as a compliment."

"I meant it as one." He's just thinking how much prettier she is when she smiles – really smiles – when her face falls a little. A second later, he sees Cooper in his periphery, headed for the fridge.

"Well, if it isn't the lovebirds," Cooper greets, overly cheerful enough to be mocking. "Good to see you two smiling again – looked like trouble in paradise there for a few days."

"Actually, we're--" Sheldon begins, but Charlotte cuts him off almost immediately.

"—None of Cooper's business," she insists, and now she's the one who's reaching, smiling too brightly at him and squeezing his hand before looking to Cooper and adding, "But for the record, we're just fine."

Cooper snatches a VitaminWater from the fridge and waves it at them casually as he breezes back toward the door. "Glad to hear it!"

The whole scene is almost painful in its falsehood.

When Cooper is out of earshot, Sheldon turns to Charlotte, raises his brows.

"Like I want him knowing you booted me out, too," she scoffs. "Good reason or not, I don't need to give Cooper any more satisfaction than he already has, and me gettin' dumped by you? Over me or not, I'm sure he'd love it."

"He's not over you," Sheldon tells her, and he firmly believe he's right in that regard, if for no other reason than that Cooper just made it clear he noticed a shift in their dynamic. If he was truly over Charlotte, he wouldn't be paying enough attention to notice, much less care enough to bring it up.

"Regardless. I'm a little short on dignity after this weekend, so do a girl a favor, and keep up the pretense for just a little while?"

"What happened this weekend?" he asks, curiosity piqued.

Charlotte flounders for just a second, before answering, "None of your business. Now, can I trust you or not?"

She sure knows how to manipulate her phrasing, he thinks, because he has no choice but to answer, "Yes. You can trust me." Anything else would be sure to cost him whatever ground he's gained with her today.

"Good." She slaps her chart shut and scoops it up, grips her coffee in the other hand, and smiles tightly at him. "See me later to schedule that seminar."

And with that, she's off, headed for her office. Sheldon knows agreeing to keep up the ruse of their relationship won't help her in the long run with Cooper, but he figures every now and then people need a stopgap. And more often that not, they need a friend. If the path to Charlotte's friendship requires a little stroll with deception, well… it's a small price to pay for helping her find what she needs.


	8. Chapter 8

Charlotte used to think the worst part about addiction was the shame. Well, the lack of control, and the shame. And then, of course, she got her addiction under control, and vowed never to tell anyone again unless absolutely necessary, so that sort of took care of that. Now, the worst part about an addiction to sleeping pills is that her body reacts to stress by refusing to shut down enough for her to fall asleep, and there's not a damned thing she can do about it.

So she's lying here, studying the ceiling, watching the overhead fan spin around and around and around until she's dizzy. She closes her eyes, and it helps a bit with the vertigo but does nothing to help her sleep. Sex used to help, but that's not really an option right now. Not since Cooper dumped her on her ass, and Sheldon cut her off. And she could take care of it herself, but frankly she's already done that once tonight and she's still wide awake. Two years ago, she'd have thrown on a dress, done something with her face, and gone out to a nightclub to find someone to scratch that itch, but even that has lost its appeal these days. Casual sex just isn't what it used to be.

So she's stuck here. Awake. Staring at the back of her eyelids now because the ceiling fan is making her want to barf. She can't get comfortable. And she can't get her brain to shut up. Today was ridiculous. Something had gone bad in the cafeteria, and she lost almost a dozen nurses to varying bouts of food poisoning – not to mention the visitors that got sick, and the time it took to figure out what the hell the problem was. She'd barely made it into Oceanside at all, and had ended up having to reschedule three patients for later dates.

When she'd finally gotten to the practice, Cooper was in a hell of a mood and seemed to think the best way to make himself feel better was to poke at her, which had accomplished nothing but a screaming fight in the kitchen over (if memory serves, and God, she wishes it didn't) expired yogurt and throwing out other peoples' lunches. Which of course became an argument over being bossy and overbearing, and making decisions without asking people, and assuming she knows what's best. If Sam hadn't come in and sent them to separate corners (or offices, to be more accurate), she's thinking she might have actually given in to the urge to punch him. Smug, arrogant, insulting, hurtful bastard. Lately, he's been making her wonder what she ever saw in him in the first place (and then she remembers, and she resolves not to think about it anymore because it makes her heart ache too much).

By the end of the day, she'd had a throbbing headache, and had just managed to get it under control with a double dose of Excedrin when the insomnia hit. Come to think of it, the caffeine in the Excedrin might help explain why she's been lying here for what seems like forever without a wink of sleep. Damnit.

She blows out a breath and opens her eyes again, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. Twelve twenty-five in the morning. She'd honestly thought it was later – probably because she's been in bed since ten o'clock. Two and a half hours of nothing seems like forever in a life as busy as hers.

She wishes Violet was home (and man, she never thought that was a phrase that would ever cross her mind). She's wide awake, and alone, and it doesn't look like sleep is coming any time soon. At least if Violet were here, they could make martinis and put on some stupid Lifetime movie, talk about how ridiculous the women onscreen were and act like they like each other (which secretly, they do, but don't tell anyone) for two hours. But Violet's not here. Violet is in goddamned Costa Rica, sunning herself on a beach or something ridiculous like that.

She could throw on sweats and sneakers, go for a run to burn off some energy, but it's not exactly the safest time of night to be jogging around. She could do crunches, but she's been crampy all day, or push ups, but her wrist is sore from whacking it against a doorjamb while she was tearing around the hospital this afternoon.

Charlotte lets loose another frustrated sigh and kicks off her covers. This is goddamned ridiculous. She needs to do _something_. Get up, get out, get on the phone even. Anything to keep her occupied before she goes stir-crazy.

She thinks about calling Jen, but it's way too late – past three AM on the East Coast. It occurs to her that she could probably call Sheldon; he's been all about mending fences and being sociable the last couple days, but things are still just a little awkward between them. Plus, she's pretty sure she'd just try to jump him if he showed up, and that would just be humiliating.

This is one of those times she regrets not making more friends out here. The thought brings her mind back to Cooper, back to him bragging his ass off about how he's a normal person with friends and a life (and she, of course, isn't). She doesn't want to think too much about him – she's not a wallower. She tries not to be anyway, but this breakup has sure as hell made her one on nights like this. She's fine during the days, though, as long as she's busy. Really. Honestly.

Oh, who is she kidding? She's a total heartbreak wallower. She wallowed for months after Travis. The better part of a year, to be honest. Hell, she wallowed so hard for the first six months that she ended up popping sleeping pills as soon as she got in the door every night, just so she wouldn't have to attend her own pity parties. She moved to LA once he finally signed the goddamned papers, in hopes of pulling herself up out of that wallow. And it worked, too. Mostly. She stopped wallowing and started working her ass off, stopped medicating and started having casual sex (after the first two failed attempts at post-marriage romance, anyway).

Apparently old habits die hard, because here she is again, brokenhearted and on the verge of a wallow.

She needs to get out of this house. And with someone, who won't let her throw herself a first-class pity fiesta. She needs a distraction. She needs _something_.

It's a shame Travis doesn't have a gig tonight, she thinks. A little ex-stalking and beer-drinking might do her good right now. She'd managed to make it through all of his set this past weekend; it got easier after the first couple of songs – although it certainly didn't hurt that she'd starting texting with Jen, first to berate her for forgetting that Hutton might have some serious sentimental attachments, and then about Travis (like Jen hadn't seen him at all in the last few years), and then about nothing and everything just to keep her mind on something else while she watched. She'd left feeling mostly sober, and a little embarrassed at hiding in a dark corner all night, but glad she'd gone. It was good just to see his face, to watch him play. Watching him play had always been a bit of a comfort.

She has vivid memories of falling asleep on their sofa with the news on mute, heavy-lidded eyes taking in the sight of him as he picked and strummed, working out a new song, practicing an old one, playing something he just liked the sound of. They'd been so quaintly domestic once, she thinks. And then it all went to hell in a hand basket, and sometimes she just wishes she could have it all back. Wishes he was here, occupying her space, rubbing her back until she falls asleep.

It occurs to her that he could be. Well, okay, the back-rubbing isn't really an option, and it's probably not a good idea to have him over, but she could see him, at the very least. He made it more than clear that he wouldn't mind spending some time with her, and she'd never known him to hit the hay before one AM, unless he was sick as a dog. She glances at the clock again. Twelve forty-five.

She reaches for her phone, pulls his name up in her Contacts, and hesitates. Is she really going to do this? Call up her ex at quarter-to-one on a weeknight, and ask him to meet her somewhere for... what? Drinks? Food? She wonders if it will seem like a booty call (then wonders for half a second if she'd _like_ it to be a booty call, before deciding that would be a spectacularly bad idea). Then she thinks _Screw it all_, and decides to just do it. She'll think of something innocent enough to invite him out for.

She's about to hit "call," when it occurs to her it's awfully presumptuous to think he's sitting at home by himself, awake and bored like she is. She settles for a text message: "You awake and/or available right now?"

It takes about thirty seconds before she gets a response: "Yep. What's up?"

Her throat goes a little dry again, her palms a little damp as she punches the Call button, and waits. It rings once, and then he answers. "Hey," he greets, and he sounds pleasantly surprised. It makes her smile.

"Hi."

"Everything alright? It's late."

"Yeah, everything's... Well, no. I can't sleep. I'm lyin' here, wide awake, and I'm thinking I want a milkshake, but I don't want to go alone. Thought I might see if you want to join me."

"Milkshakes, huh? I could go for that."

"You ever been to Millions of Milkshakes?"

"No," he tells her, and he's definitely smiling now. She can hear it in his voice. "Can't say that I have."

"How fast can you get to West Hollywood?"

He makes a noise like he's trying to suss it out, then answers, "About a half hour, give or take. Where am I going?"

"You got a pen handy?"

She hears rustling on the other end for a minute, then "Yeah. Got it."

"It's on Santa Monica Blvd., just off San Vicente. There's a parking lot on San Vicente, just south of Santa Monica, but before West Hollywood Park. If you're passing the ball field, you've gone too far. It's not exactly kosher parking – it's for the bank on the corner – but they're closed by now, so you should be fine."

"Alrighty then. I'll see you in about half an hour?"

"Yeah, see you then," she tells him, before they hang up. She's suddenly anxious as a virgin on prom night, and just a little bit wired with anticipation. She flicks her light on, and hops out of bed, rummages through her nightstand for something casual and I-just-got-out-of-bed-for-this, but still attractive. Settles on a black terry tracksuit and sneakers, and berates herself mentally when she assures herself it looks like she's not trying. This isn't a date, for God's sake, it's milkshakes. With her ex-husband. At one AM. Jesus.

Charlotte smoothes the soft material over her belly, grabs cash, keys, and her driver's license from her purse, pockets her phone and leaves the house before she can tell herself this is an absolutely crazy idea.


	9. Chapter 9

She beats him there, which isn't really a surprise, because Violet's place is definitely less than a half hour out. She contemplates waiting in the parking lot, but she's not sure if he'll look for her there or out front, and what if he finds a place to park somewhere else? So she gives herself a once over in the mirror, swipes on a coat of Chapstick from her glove compartment, locks up her car, and walks through the narrow driveway to Santa Monica Blvd. It's late, but Millions of Milkshakes is open until two, and there's still a few people in line. She fiddles with her phone, checks the time – one fifteen – then busies herself by answering some of the emails she's let pile up.

She glances up every once in a while, but he still manages to catch her off-guard, scuffed sneakers and worn denim stepping into her peripheral as he clears his throat a little. She looks up and he's right there, in hi-def, smiling a little anxiously and tucking his hands into his pockets. "Hey."

She smiles a little, fights the flutter in her chest at the sight of him, and says, "Hi." He grins then, and she feels herself do the same, feeling a little silly, but her belly's all twisted up in knots. He's rockin' that five o-clock shadow again, and were his eyes always that blue? Neither says anything for a few moments, and before it gets too awkward, she blurts the only thing she can think of: "You got a haircut."

It's true – he's had it trimmed since the weekend and it's not curling so much at his ears anymore – but she feels her cheeks flame red immediately as he runs a hand through it, then pauses and tilts his head, looking a little bewildered. "Yeah," he says slowly. "How'd you know?"

Busted. "Oh, God. I – You – I wanted – Shit." She's humiliated, and feels hot all the way from her cheeks to her chest, and she's not sure if it makes it better or worse when he laughs out loud at her, and relaxes, propping himself against the wall behind her with one hand. He raises his brows expectantly, and Charlotte wants to sink into the pavement and straight through to Hell because it would be so much better than this. Someone needs to invent a brain-to-mouth filter for when exes are around, that's for damned sure. "Jen ran into Todd, he told her you were playing with Eddie Hutton, I might have, y'know-"

"Stalked me a little?"

"Shut up." He laughs again and she buries her face in her hands and shakes her head back and forth. Sweet Holy Jesus, this is awful. Just awful.

"Well, did we at least pass muster?"

Charlotte peeks at him through her fingers, and nods. "Yeah, you were great," she mutters into her palms, and he chuckles again before she feels his fingers wrap around her wrist, warm and just a little damp (so hell, at least he's nervous too) as he draws her hands down.

"Well, thank you kindly," he tells her, embellishing his drawl and nodding at her. "Now let me buy you a milkshake."

"Oh, I'm buying," she insists, falling into step with him as he heads for the door. She still feels like an idiot, but if he's willing to overlook it, she's sure as hell not going to dwell on her humiliation.

He holds the door for her, brows lifting again. "Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," she nods, hanging back from the register and nodding his attention up to the menu wall. "I was about five minutes from knockin' myself unconscious just to get some shut-eye, and you saved me. So this is my treat."

"The Southern gentleman in me takes issue with that," he tells her, before adding, "But the guy who was married to you thinks it's best not to fight you over milkshakes."

Charlotte smiles up at him, and says, "Listen to that guy." She skims the menu, but she already knows what she's getting. They do a mean root beer float, and it always seems a shame to get that instead of some decadent shake, but the last thing she needs is a full belly to keep her awake when she gets home. She sneaks a glance at Travis, and finds him looking at her. "What?"

He shrugs, and the corners of his mouth twitch a little as he tells her, "Nothin. Pink's just a good color for you, that's all."

Charlotte frowns and glances down. There's not a stitch of pink on her. "I'm wearing black." He taps her cheek where her embarrassed blush is still fading, and she feels it flare back a little. Sonofabitch. She whaps him hard on the arm and he damn near giggles at her. "Will you just pick yourself a damned shake?"

"Yes, ma'am," he laughs, squinting a little to read the list of shakes and mix-ins.

"Honestly," she mutters under her breath, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest. He's still smiling, and she thinks it's a good thing he's so damned good looking, or she might have to stay mad at him. As it is, she finds she's a bit too distracted by reacquainting herself with the angle of his jaw to hold onto her ire.

He opts for a vanilla shake with peanut butter cups and chocolate sauce mixed in, and then ribs her for getting her float as she's paying. She tells him to stuff it, and that she's always had a fondness for root beer, doesn't he remember?

"I do, but at a place with a name like Millions of Milkshakes, it seems like you oughtta actually get yourself a shake."

Charlotte just shrugs, taking a sip from her straw as they wait for his shake to finish blending.

Just as they're heading for seats at the counter, a cluster of twenty-somethings pile in, rowdy and in various stages of intoxication, looking for their sugar fix. "Looks like we beat the rush," Travis tells her, and Charlotte makes a face and nods him toward the door.

Once they're outside, she says, "It is way too late for me to deal with that, especially after the day I've had."

She heads back toward the parking lot, and Travis follows dutifully, sucking hard at his straw before asking, "Rough one?"

"Mm," she says around her own straw, swallowing before telling him, "Awful. Running a hospital isn't all it's cracked up to be, let me tell you."

"Running a hospital, huh? Look at you, all important. Charlotte King, Queen Bee."

She's not sure whether or not she should bristle at that, so she glances sideways at him and says, "I worked hard to be that important."

"I bet," he tells her, and she realizes then that he means it, that he hadn't so much been ribbing her as maybe genuinely impressed by her success. "You always did."

She doesn't really know what to say to that, so she just forces a little smile and leads him toward her car. She fishes her keys out with one hand, deactivates her alarm, then leans against the bumper. Travis settles next to her.

"I see I've offended you."

"No. No, I just..." Charlotte sighs, shakes her head. "You didn't, I just wasn't sure how you meant that – me 'being all important, queen bee.' Sounded a little like you thought I was feelin' a little big for my britches."

"Nah," he assures her. "Just proud of you. Good to hear you're doin' well out here."

She smiles then, genuinely, and tells him, "I'm doin' alright for myself. Got the hospital, and workin' at a practice. Keeps me busy."

He chuckles a little, stirs his straw around his milkshake, and smirks. "Right. Imagine my surprise when I entered my ex-wife's name into a search engine and came up with 'Charlotte King, Sexologist.'"

"It's a legitimate medical specialty," she insists, several months past sick of this particular issue.

"I believe it," he says, holding up his free hand innocently. "Just unexpected. Although maybe it shouldn't be; you never were shy about the bedroom."

"I was never shy about much of anything," she points out.

"No," he chuckles a little. "You never were that." They're smiling at each other again, and she's marveling just a little bit at how awkward this is not. He's just... Travis. And she's just her. And it's... nice. "So tell me about this bad day."

"Ugh," she groans, face falling into a frown. "Tainted cafeteria food. Cost me enough of my staff to be a damned mess, especially once the visitors started takin' ill as well. Spent half the damned day trying to make sure it wasn't something airborne or contagious, and then trying to pinpoint exactly what had gone bad, plus findin' extra beds for all the people puking their guts up or otherwise sick as dogs from the whole thing. It was ridiculous. Had to cancel appointments at the practice, and then when I finally got there, I got in a big ol' fight with my ex, diagnosed two UTIs, and went home. Took a handful of Excedrin and laid there for hours, and then called you."

"That sucks," he tells her, and she can tell he means it, but she laughs out loud.

"Yeah." She sips from her drink again. "It did. But enough about my problems. How about you? How's work?"

She doesn't realize she's given him an opening until he grins again, and teases, "I don't know, you tell me. You were there, after all."

"Travis!" she scolds, but it's a little less embarrassing now that she's beginning to feel more comfortable with him. "Stop it. I mean the other work – the studio stuff."

"Ah. That."

"Yes, that."

"It's good. A friend of Luke Seever's – you remember him?" She nods, slurping up root beer. "Needed a guitarist for an album, and Luke recommended me. Figured I as long as I was gonna be out here, he should make it worth my while and lined up another album gig for me next month."

"Kind of him," Charlotte says, scooping up a bit of ice cream from her cup.

"Yeah, Luke's done well for himself. I'm stayin' in this apartment over his garage – you should see his house. It's nothing to scoff at, that's for damned sure."

"Huge?"

"Well, I suppose not compared to where you grew up, but it holds it's own. Nice neighborhood."

"How long you playin' with Hutton?"

"Eddie's guitarist is laid up for a bit, so I'll be here until he's back." He shrugs a little. "It's good work, the guys are mostly great, nice to be on stage."

"You still playin' back home?"

"Yep. Steady gigs, can't complain. I teach guitar still, help dad out with the dogs." He shrugs. "Life's pretty much the same as always, I guess."

The same as always, she thinks. It's a concept that's totally foreign to her – life being the same as it always was. She gets stuck in her ruts like everyone else, but life in LA is nothing like life in Georgia, which was nothing like college, which was nothing like Monroeville. But Travis is a Georgia boy, born and raised. And a musician, born and raised. He's still in jeans and a goddamned Georgia Bulldogs t-shirt, and she's sitting here against her Mercedes in a Juicy Couture tracksuit. She suddenly feels like they're worlds apart, and she wonders what he sees when he looks at her. She looks at him and sees the man she married, but her? She's not that girl anymore.

"This milkshake is not messin' around," he tells her, pulling her out of her thoughts as she watches him wrangle his straw through the thick drink.

"Yeah, it's, uh... it's kind of a spoon-and-straw deal sometimes." She digs her own spoon into her ice cream for another bite. "But you like it?"

"Definitely. Thank you for buyin'." He smiles at her then, and she nods, looks back to her drink. She can feel him watching her, and she suddenly wishes he wouldn't. He breaks the silence a moment later, telling her, "You look worn out."

"Yeah. Well." She musters up a smile for him. "It's gettin' on two AM, and I've been up since six. And have to be up at six again tomorrow." A little shrug. "I'm beat."

"And yet you're here, havin' milkshakes with me." He tsks her a little, and gives her that worried look he always did when he thought she was workin' herself to the bone and not takin' care of herself. "You should be in bed."

"I was. Couldn't sleep," she reminds.

"Right. Didn't you used to have somethin' for that? Ambien?"

"Yeah."

"What happened to that?"

She shifts a little uncomfortably, shrugs a shoulder. "Stopped takin' it."

"Why? You were never really a good sleeper; if I recall, that pill was a godsend when you got it. I thought you were gonna erect monuments or somethin'."

He's going for levity, but she's not feeling all that light, so she just answers, "Momma."

Travis gives her a look somewhere between sympathy and an eye roll. "You're not your Momma, Charlotte. Nothing like her, and never were."

"More so than you might think." He lifts one brow curiously, works his straw around in his milkshake, and just waits for her to elaborate. Charlotte thinks about lying, but hell, it's Travis. He'd probably see through it anyway. "Had a little problem, for a while. After we, uh… Right before I left Georgia." She sips a mouthful of root beer, memorizes the license plate of the car across from her, and adds, "Couldn't sleep. Didn't feel like being awake. Realized I was taking it too far, and haven't touched a sleeping pill since." She glances up and tries to ignore the guilt on his face – doesn't do anyone any favors to call attention to it. "Sucks on nights like this."

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, and she shrugs again, waves a hand at him.

"You didn't force the pills down my throat."

"No, but I'd wager I gave you a good reason for takin' 'em."

"Stop it," she orders, making sure to meet his eyes this time. "I'm responsible for my actions, not you. I took the pills; I let myself take it too far knowing full well my family's tendency toward that sort of thing. It's not your responsibility, so stop kickin' yourself over it."

He cracks a little bit of a smile, shifts a little against the bumper and asks, "So what gets you to sleep now? I mean, it can't be milkshakes every time, right?"

"Nah." Charlotte shakes her head, grins at him. "Sex."

He laughs outright at that, and she chuckles with him just a little. "Should I be worried about my virtue then?" he asks, still smiling at her, and she shakes her head.

"No, you're safe. I'm, ah… I'm having a little bit of forced celibacy right now, I guess you could say."

"Forced celibacy, huh? That doesn't sound like much fun."

"It's not," she chuckles. "But I've got some wounds that need lickin'. Don't need to drag anyone down with me while I wallow." She fiddles with her spoon again, ice cream melting into her root beer, fingers icy now against the plastic cup.

"Oh? Do tell."

"That ex I mentioned… You know I said I cheated?" He nods. "Well, we worked things out, after that. Were okay for a while, then broke up a couple months ago." She figures Sheldon's not even worth mentioning – that was just a Band-Aid that wouldn't stick.

"Mind if I ask why?"

"Huh?"

"Why the break-up? I mean, you worked through infidelity. Gotta wonder what could, uh, top that."

"I neglected to tell him I'd been married until, y'know, now," she mutters around her straw.

Travis blows out a breath, shakes his head, but he's still got that damned charming smile on his face. "You'd been together how long?"

"Two years, just about."

"And it just, what? Slipped your mind?"

"I didn't want to talk about it," she answers with a shrug, bristling just a little. She's so done fighting over this. If she never argued over her divorce again, it would be too soon. "Wasn't any of his damned business. Besides, he'd want to know everything, all the dirty details, and then he'd look at me like I was some poor, hurt girl that needed to be tended to, and I didn't want to be… that. He's one of those guys who likes to fix things, be the big man. I didn't need him to try to fix what happened – or me, for that matter, although he seemed to be workin' on that anyway."

"Oh, please tell me you were not trying to make it work with some guy who thought you needed fixing."

"Well, I can be a bit of a challenge," Charlotte cedes, because she knows in the end that she's not exactly easy to love. That she doesn't make herself easy to love.

Travis scoffs, screws his face up a little. "So can everyone. It's part of what makes love interesting. And believe me, you take a little finessing, but you're not that hard to be with."

Charlotte feels the words in her mouth, rolls them over her tongue while she debates whether or not to let them out, then just finally says it: "We've been divorced for six years, Trav. Pretty sure you're not the authority on Charlotte King anymore."

He gives her a sideways glance, manages to look a little sheepish. "Right. Sorry. So, what did this ex of yours think was so wrong with you?"

"I had… trust issues, and I didn't… connect. Didn't open up and confide and all that."

"And he fixed all that?"

"Well, no. As soon as I trusted the bastard, opened up and confided like he wanted, he went and broke my heart."

Travis sucks on his straw and makes a face that pretty clearly reads "See?"

"But he reminded me love's not so scary. That it's worth getting your heart broken now and then. So, I guess I owe him that." She sips too, murmurs, "Selfish bastard" around her straw, then sips again.

Travis smiles a little. "He didn't deserve you anyway."

"Now, how do you know that? You don't even know so much as his name, and you've been good and gone from my life for years."

Travis just shrugs. "He let you go."

She feels that stupid little flutter in her chest again – Travis always was good with the sweet words. She can't help the little smile, even when she reminds him, "So did you."

"Yeah, but he gave you up. I just didn't fight hard enough to keep you." He reaches over, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and Charlotte has to fight not to shiver at the feel of chilly fingertips against her skin. "Lesser sin, if you ask me."

"Ah."

"And besides, I never said I deserved you."

She nods slowly, sucks the last of the root beer from her cup and stirs her spoon through the glob of ice cream left in the bottom. Finally, she lifts her head, smiles a little at him, and says, "You did. Mistakes were made, but… you did."

Travis doesn't say anything for a minute, just swirls his straw through his melting milkshake, tugs a few sips from it, and studies the cars across from them. Then, he looks at her, gives her this smile that she can tell is a little forced, and says, "Have I told you yet how damned pretty you are? I mean, you always were, but… you're looking real good, Lola."

"Alright, you," she tells him, nudging his arm with hers. "I didn't say you had a license to flirt."

"I'm not flirting, just being honest."

"Mmhmm."

"I am."

"Sure you are."

"Uh huh."

They're both grinning now, and it feels good, so she decides to let it go. Fifteen minutes later, both their cups are empty, and forty-five after that, she's letting herself back into Violet's place, her body finally feeling heavy with fatigue. Seeing him was good – better than good – and he managed not to let her get away without agreeing to lunch next week. She climbs the stairs and heads for the bathroom, catches herself smiling as she brushes her teeth. She shakes her head at herself and wonders what she's doing, getting all messed up with Travis again. Then she tells herself it's just lunch and not to be silly, spits toothpaste into the sink, and heads for bed. Five minutes later, she's watching moonlight blur and fade over her ceiling as her eyes droop shut.


	10. Chapter 10

Travis is on time – more than that, he's early. He knows better than to show up late for Charlotte. She doesn't like late; never has. He's never really been sure if it's something she inherited from her Momma or if she's just so damned busy that every minute counts. Regardless, he's getting them a table at a little cafe in Santa Monica ten minutes before the time they agreed to meet, and about two minutes before she texts to tell him _she_ is running late. Held up at work. She'll be frazzled, he thinks, so he orders her a water with lemon and a glass of Chardonnay when their waiter stops by.

He's not quite sure what to think of all this yet – being on speaking terms with Lola again – but he knows he likes it. Knows he's grateful. When he finally signed their divorce papers six years ago (and six months after she'd served them – he'd been convinced he could get her to come around if he just gave her some time), he was pretty certain he'd never see her again. She'd already made her plans to move out West, and he wasn't dumb. He knew it was to put even more distance between them than the miles between Atlanta and Decatur. Turned out giving her space hadn't helped her come around after all. But that was just as well; some betrayals shouldn't be forgiven.

He wishes he'd had a better answer for her when she called. Wishes he could have explained why he did what he did, but he can't. His memories of that night are spotty; all he remembers clearly is fighting with her, saying awful things that he didn't mean, drinking his whiskey straight, calling Trish. After that, he has moments of perfect focus, and a lot of blurry in-between. He remembers them talking, but is short on the specifics. He can't remember who kissed who first, but he remembers it getting out of hand, fast. Clothes flying, hands groping, and then the clatter of Charlotte's keys hitting the hardwood as she walked in and saw him like that. And he remembers her face. He'll never forget that face. Stunned and horrified and so _hurt_. He remembers scrambling off of Trish, tripping over the pants still caught around his ankles, and the picture that fell off the wall when Charlotte slammed the door behind her as she left again without a word. He remembers that she tore out of the drive so fast her tires squealed, and he was worried she wouldn't make it safely to wherever she was going. He's pretty certain he left her no less than five drunken voicemails after kicking Trish out, but all he got for his trouble was a little brother pounding down his door and then pounding his face so hard he spent the rest of the night nursing a broken nose. He hadn't bothered to hit back – he knew he deserved it.

Todd had told him now much of an idiot he was, and to sober the hell up and start working on apologies, and to leave her be for a few days. Then he'd gone up to Lola's room, packed a week's worth of her clothes in a bag, and headed back to Jen's.

Travis had given her three days, then tried calling again. She never took his call. He left more voicemails, begged and pleaded and apologized, but Charlotte Evans had her pride and it apparently didn't stand for things like low-down cheaters. The next time he'd seen her was three weeks later, with divorce papers in her hand. Forgiveness was not on the table. Not for him. Not after what he did. Not then.

So to say he's surprised to have gotten it now – grateful to have gotten it now – that's an understatement. It's a second chance he never thought he'd have, and he's not looking for anything more than friendship from her, but he'll be damned if he's going to just walk away if he can have even that. So he'll meet her for milkshakes in the dead of night, and he'll talk her into lunch on a Monday afternoon, because maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to look at her one day and not feel the sour taste of regret.

He's picking absently at the bread on the table and marinating in his own guilt just a little bit when she rushes in, frazzled just as he thought she'd be. The hostess points her toward his table, and Travis takes in the sight of her – a far cry today from the sweats-and-no-makeup Charlotte he saw at midnight, though she still looks tired. But now she's all polished and pretty, in a sleek blouse and pencil skirt, those tanned legs he always loved so much ending in a pair of black stilettos that he thinks would look even better with a whole lot less clothing. It seems completely impractical for her job, but still sexy as hell. LA has treated her well.

He makes his way back to her face when she's almost to the table (she's prettiest without makeup, he thinks, but she certainly looks smokin' today), meets her eyes and smiles.

"Well, look at you," he says by way of greeting, and whatever she'd opened her mouth to say dies on her lips.

She snaps her mouth shut, eyes him a little warily and asks, "What?"

"You look good. Very professional."

"Well," she takes her seat with a little shrug. "Queen Bee and all that."

"You wear that at the hospital?" he questions with a raise of his brows. "Last I saw you, you were working in scrubs and tennis shoes."

"Well, I've moved up in world," she reminds, reaching for her wine now that she's settled. She takes a sip, and closes her eyes for a second, hums her approval. Travis smiles smugly. Got that one right. "Bless you," she murmurs, lifting her glass a little and smiling at him. "Sorry I'm late."

Travis just shrugs. "Savin' lives, I'm sure. Can't really fault you for that."

"Something that like that," she mutters, taking another sip before setting her wine aside and reaching for the menu. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm starving."

"No, by all means," he tells her. "Peruse away." He already knows what he's getting, so while she studies her options, he studies her. She's thinner than he remembers, and she was always a bit of a beanpole to begin with so that's sayin' something. He has the overwhelming urge to fix her something that'll stick to her ribs a bit, and it gets even worse when the waiter comes to take their order and she gets a salad. Travis orders a burger and fries, and another Coke.

When the waiter leaves, he makes a face at her. "Thought you were starving."

"I am."

"Then what's with the rabbit food?"

Charlotte rolls her eyes. "Maybe I like rabbit food. Besides, I seem to recall someone at this table making a pretty mean salad, and we both know it sure as hell wasn't me."

He chuckles at that – he always was the cook in their household. She was too busy with school and work to really have time, and he was raised to appreciate both good cooking, and the act of making it. Charlotte was raised to appreciate good food on her plate, but had never had much of a clue how to get it there. "Oh, please tell me you finally learned how to cook," he says, shaking his head at her good-naturedly.

"Now, why would I do that when I have a functioning microwave and I'm surrounded by all these restaurants with take-out menus?"

Travis groans. "Lola. You're grown, you oughtta be able to cook for yourself. You let me come by and teach you to make something, okay? Chicken, a good steak, hell, a salad that'll stick to you a little. Somethin'. Anything."

She's eyeing him a little warily – smile firmly in place, but there's something hesitant in the eyes, before she says to him, "I suppose I could be persuaded. If lunch goes well."

"Well then, we'll have to make sure it goes well, else I'll have to worry about you wastin' away on your own." He smirks a little, swallows the last of his Coke.

"Made it the last six years," she points out, sipping her wine again before reaching for a piece of bread. He's pleased to see six years in LaLa Land hasn't instilled in her a fear of carbs. Or butter, apparently, because she slathers on a generous layer before she bites in. Some things never change.

He's tempted to rib her half-seriously about being too skinny, but she never did like when he did that and he's not sure how tenuous this new peace is between them. Best not to rock it. So he smiles at her, shrugs a shoulder. "Guess you did. Still."

She's got a mouthful of bread, rolls her eyes at him again and holds up a finger to keep him quiet. When she swallows, she says, "I'm eating just fine, thank you. You're like the damned food police. Can't say I missed that."

Travis just scoffs. "Please. If I wasn't the 'damned food police' you'd have starved to death during your internship." She shrugs and quirks an eyebrow, ceding the point. "Old habits die hard."

"Seems so." She's relaxing a little now, finally, settling in a bit. Her smile seems to come easier. "So, Food Officer Evans, how are you enjoying Los Angeles?"

"Like it just fine, but I've been here before."

She looks a little surprised at that, then seems to catch herself. "Oh. A lot?"

"Few times."

"Oh. I, uh..." She flounders for a minute, then shakes her head, and he figures she's trying to wrap her brain around him being in the same city as her without her knowing time and time again. He'd been tempted to look her up every time, but without so much as a word from her in years, he'd figured she was a lost cause and that trying to get back in touch would only hurt her. And he wanted to be done hurting her.

"Mostly for work," he tells her. "But I like it alright. Traffic's a bitch, and the people are a little more plastic than I like 'em, but it's not bad. Not somewhere I'd want to spend forever, but it's nice to visit."

"Can't beat the weather, though," she points out, seemingly recovered from her moment of embarrassment.

"No, the weather definitely doesn't suck," he agreed. "Not sure how I'd feel about the earthquakes, but-" he shrugs, "I guess it's a trade-off, right?"

"There's always a trade-off – like peaches and good Southern cooking, and hurricanes. Gotta put up with one in order to keep the other, right?"

Travis chuckles a little, nods his head. The waiter brings his Coke, and he takes a few swallows while Lola reaches for another piece of bread. "So how about you?" he asks, after a minute. "How do you like LA?"

"It's good. I've got a good job – a couple of good jobs, actually. I'm the youngest Chief-of-Staff ever at my hospital; Big Daddy was very proud." She smiles then, the smile of a proud daughter, and Travis was about to give his condolences, but he doesn't want to dampen the mood. Let her preen a bit first – he can always get to the 'I'm so sorry for your loss' stuff another time.

"I bet. You like your staff, they like you?"

Charlotte snorts a laugh, shakes her head. "Not at all. They hate me. They think I'm a terror. But hell, it gets things done, right?" If he didn't know her better, he'd think she wasn't bothered by it at all, but there's something in the eyes that doesn't go unnoticed.

"Inherited the King hardass gene, huh?"

"Oh, like you didn't already know that."

Travis chuckles. "Yeah. I certainly did. But you get more flies with honey, and all that."

Her smile is a little more rueful now, and she shifts a shoulder uncomfortably. "Work was my... coping mechanism. It kept my mind off of – I, uh – The divorce really – I guess I just wasn't feeling very friendly at first." He watches her try to make her words work for her, and feels a twinge of guilt in his chest. She's either trying to spare his feelings, or her pride, or both, but it's pretty clear what she's trying to get out: getting her heart broken – by him – made her hard. Shut her down. He reaches for his Coke again, just to give himself something to do that doesn't involve looking her in the eye. "So I didn't make a lot of friends, and then I had a bit of a reputation for being... less than kind." She takes a deep breath, smoothes the edge her of napkin with her thumb. "But it got me promoted several times, so I guess it pays to be ruthless now and then. You don't get to the top by making friends; you do it by getting shit done."

Travis chuckles dryly. "Yeah. Guess that's true now and again."

"True for me."

"Well, then." He lifts his glass off the table, nods at her. "To gettin' shit done."

Lola laughs a little, taps her wine glass to his, and he's just glad she's smiling. Then she says, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I made my choices," and he remembers he's not the only one who's reading old tells from across the table.

"I just hate that I hurt you so bad, junebug," he tells her, sipping again before setting his glass down, thinking this conversation would be easier with a shot of whiskey in the glass. Then again, whiskey and hard talks with Charlotte are sort of what got them here, so maybe not.

"Can't change it now," she says, and her voice is softer than he's heard it in all the time they've been talkin' again. She reaches across the table, hesitates only a little bit as she laces her fingers with his and squeezes. "I forgave you, remember? It happened, and we can't undo it. So stop. My life's not all that bad. Promise. Sucks a bit right now, but that's because someone else is being a selfish ass, not because of you. You've actually been a pretty good distraction. It's nice to have something to look forward to again."

He smiles a little at that, squeezes back. "You look forward to me, huh?"

"I do." She draws her hand back, smirking. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Oh, I will."

Charlotte laughs and rolls her eyes, and he can't help grinning at her. He always did love that laugh. "I just bet."

For a second they just smile at each other, and Travis wonders what alternate universe he's found himself in that he's sitting across a table from Charlotte, grinning like fools, talking about forgiveness and lettin' things go and lookin' forward to seeing each other. He's expecting to wake up any minute now.

But he doesn't wake up. The waiter comes with their food, and Charlotte tucks into her her salad like she hasn't just eaten half the bread basket. Travis laughs at her, and she looks up, a little sheepish. "I'm hungry," she reminds, adding, "I didn't exactly eat breakfast," and earning herself exactly the scolding face from him that he's sure she knew was coming.

"Lola."

"Oh for the love of Jesus. I overslept, okay? I didn't get woozy or fall over, and I'm clearly not working through my lunch. So let it go. I promise to eat breakfast tomorrow," she adds, exaggerating her words, but he can tell she's not quite as annoyed as she's acting. Considering she's nursing a break-up, he can't help but wonder if maybe she likes being looked after just a little. Fine by him.

"I'm gonna text you and ask," he tells her, and she shakes her head at him, spears a piece of chicken from her salad and mutters "insufferable" before she takes the bite.

"New topic," she announces. "Something less obnoxious. How's my dog?"

_Her_ dog. Travis smiles around a mouthful of burger, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. Of course she still thinks of Dasher as hers. He flips through the photos, finds one of his goddaughter with her pudgy little arms wrapped around the neck of a brown and white pitbull and flips it around to show her. He doesn't let go of the wallet, though, and keeps his fingers carefully over the imprint of the wedding bands tucked into the worn leather. He figures she doesn't need to know just yet about him holding onto those. Her fingers brush his when she reaches over to steady the wallet, face melting just a little.

"Oh, look at my boy. He's still as handsome as the day you brought him home. Who's the little towhead?"

"That'd be Dakota. Lacey Turner's little girl. I'm her god-daddy," he says proudly, cuz he is damned proud of that little munchkin. Smart as a whip and fearless as all hell. Lola would love her.

"Lacey had babies? With who?"

"Nobody worth mentioning. Some guy – you know how she could be sometimes." Charlotte makes a face at him, and before she can berate him for being all 'down on women's lib' or something like that, he forges ahead. "We started dating when Kota was a baby, were together for about a year and a half, almost two. It didn't end up workin' out, but I try to be around, y'know? Give her a guy to look up to."

Something flickers on Charlotte's face, and he doesn't have to reach far to guess that him playing daddy to someone's kid might not be the easiest thing to hear. But all she says is, "Yeah. You're a good guy, Travis. She's a lucky little girl."

He shrugs a shoulder, tucks the wallet back into his pocket when she lets go.

"And I see she's takin' care of Dasher."

Travis laughs a little at that, shakes his head at her. "Oh, they're best friends. Which is a little surprising, considering that dog hates every woman who isn't you now that you're gone."

He watches the grin spread across her face, before she says, "He does not."

"Oh, he absolutely does. Anyone I show the slightest bit of interest in – Lacey included, by the way – gets either barked at or pointedly ignored. And I take a little bit of offense to the fact that he's so damned loyal to you, considering I'm the one who spent all the time training him. And I still can't get him to speak on command, by the way."

Charlotte hoots a laugh, looks light and happy and free for the first time, and says, "And I'm still not gonna tell you what his cue is for that. As for him being loyal to me, I guess I was just the alpha dog in the house, huh? Maybe you needed to man up a bit."

"I'm man enough, thank you," he tells her, laughing with her now because she's just so damned infectious when she's like this. "But you can take comfort in the fact that your dog is still very much your dog."

"Oh, I will," she sighs happily, reaching for her wine. "How are your parents?"

"They're good. Real good. Mom's still workin' hospice, dad's still got the dogs and the garage."

She shakes her head. "Same as always, huh?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I can't believe your life is still... your life. And mine is like a million miles apart from where it was back then."

"Well. Things are different. People change, we grow. But some things should be constant, right?"

"I guess." She seems just a little sad again, and he's kickin' himself for letting that happen, even though he knows she's the one who turned the conversation there. Still. He'd rather she keep that smile on her face for an afternoon. She glances at her watch, and sighs. "Damnit."

"What?"

"Well, with the two jobs now, I don't ever really get my full lunch hour. Somethin' always comes up at the hospital, or I have an early appointment at the practice. Stuff like that. I tried to carve out a good forty-five today, for us, but then I was late, and..."

He gets the picture. "You gotta run."

"In a few minutes, yeah." She grimaces a little, bites the inside of her lip. "I'm sorry."

"For what? Got to see you, talk to you, get some food in ya. And I'd say this went quite well, which means I get to see you again, if I recall."

She smiles then, and that's a little better, he thinks. "Yeah. How's Thursday? My place."

Well, look at that. This week, even. Travis grins, and nods. "I can do Thursday. Might have to be a little later in the evening, but-"

"That's perfect. I don't usually finish work early anyway."

"Well, alright then. Thursday. I'll figure out what I want you cookin', and pick up the stuff on the way over. You just have to show up and learn."

"Okay." She checks her watch again. "Let's get the check, I can't be late for this appointment."

"Go," he tells her. "This is on me."

"Travis."

"I insist. It's a man's right to buy a meal for a pretty girl now and then. You paid for milkshakes, now it's my turn."

"Trav, you really don't have to-"

"I know, but I want to. And you're gonna be late."

She looks at her wrist again, smiles while she sighs. "Alright. Fine. But I'm payin' you back for the food on Thursday, okay?"

"We can bicker over that on Thursday," he tells her, and she chuckles, reaching for her purse.

"I just bet." She slings it over her shoulder, swallows the last gulp of her wine, and says. "It was really good to see you."

"You too, junebug. Now get on outta here. Go save someone's sex life."

She laughs as she stands, tells him she will, and then she's off, and Travis gets to admire the rear view of that outfit as she heads for the door.

**.:.**

Charlotte breezes into Oceanside with a smile on her face. Hell, she's about two seconds away from humming a jaunty tune, and you know what? It feels good. Real good. She hasn't felt this good in months, not since everything started going south with Cooper.

Speaking of, he passes her in the hallway, raises his brows and says, "Someone's in a good mood."

"I am," she confirms, as he falls into step beside her.

"Hot lunchtime quickie with Sheldon," he asks, and there's just enough of an edge to it that she can tell it's a bit of a dig, but she's feeling too light right now to care. She's going to ignore it, going to keep feeling this good for as long as she can.

"Nope," she tells him. "Just havin' myself a real good day." She heads into her office, leaves him standing in the hallway, and powers up her computer. Today may have started out less than stellar, but she'll be damned if she'll let it end that way.


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note:_ Several people have asked if/when we're going to see Cooper or Violet any time soon, and I just want to let y'all know that (with the obvious exception of Travis) this story is going to follow the show, for the most part, between now and Violet's return (which is still a few weeks out, within this story -- we're in those 6 weeks that were jumped between episodes 18 and 19). So we won't see much of Cooper outside the office, because he and Charlotte are really only speaking professionally. Once Violet returns, we'll see a bit more of him, and the story will begin to deviate a bit from what we're seeing on the show.

Thanks for all the great comments! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well!

* * *

When Jen's phone rings, and she sees 'Charlotte King' on the display, she raises her brows, mutes her TV, and presses talk. "Wow. Twice in two weeks. Do I need to worry about your mental health after all?"

"You never told me Travis was playin' house with Lacey Turner," Charlotte replies by way of greeting, and Jen grimaces just a little. It's true, she didn't, but she had her reasons. It takes her just a second to wonder how Charlotte even found out about that, but after their last conversation, she has an inkling.

"Who told you that?" Jen asks carefully, and gets exactly the answer she was expecting.

"Travis."

She smiles, shakes her head. "You saw Travis."

"Twice."

Jen can't help but laugh a little. "Twice? In the last week, you've seen him twice?"

"And I'm seeing him again on Thursday," Charlotte admits, and Jen's shaking her head again. Unbelievable. And yet, not.

"Guess you got over that whole not-sure-if-you-want-see-him thing, huh?"

"Yeah," Charlotte half-chuckles. "With the help of a little insomnia. I couldn't sleep one night, and it seemed as good a time as any to meet up face-to-face."

Jen is well-versed in Charlotte's particular brand of poor late-night decision-making, so she shuts her eyes for a second and hopes this time her best friend managed to do the smart thing. "Please tell me it didn't involve alcohol and impulsive sex."

"It didn't," Charlotte huffs a little, and Jen can almost see the eye-roll. "I'm not that dumb or desperate. We had milkshakes."

Milkshakes. Of course they did. "Well, how very 1950s of you. Was your next date at the sock hop?"

"Shut up," Charlotte chuckles. "It seemed safer than drinks. And no, our next _meeting_ – because it was not a date – was lunch, today. Which he talked me into at nearly two in the morning, while I was sleep-deprived and sated by the aforementioned milkshake."

This time, Jen's the one rolling her eyes, and saying, "Oh yeah, I bet he really had to twist your arm," because she's never known Charlotte King to be able to resist Travis Evans – not until the very end, at least. Then, there was nothing anyone could do (and believe me, they'd all tried) to get to her give in and just sit down with him before she went ahead with divorce.

Charlotte breezes by that comment, though, and gets back on point: "Which, back to my original question, was when I found out about Lacey. So. Excuses – go."

"It would've hurt you," Jen tells her simply. "And besides, I was never really friends with Lacey, and it was around the time Todd and I were starting to go down the tubes. I knew it was happening, but I was a bit more wrapped up in my own stuff, to be honest."

"I guess that's fair."

There's a moment of pause, and she figures Char needs a little bit of coaxing to get into the nitty-gritty of whatever she's really called to talk about, so she asks, "Does it bother you?"

Charlotte sighs on the other end of the line. "I don't know. I mean, he certainly has the right to date whoever he pleases, it's just odd to think of him... like that. With someone else. And I guess it shouldn't be, because he always wanted kids, y'know? Always said he wanted to fill me up with babies just as soon as I'd let him. But... I don't know. I don't know what the hell I'm thinking anymore. I mean, look at me. I'm all turned around about Cooper, I think I might actually end up being civil and friendly with Sheldon, and now I'm seeing my ex-husband three times in the space of a week." She pauses for a second, then asks, "Am I crazy?"

"Off your damned rocker, and always have been, but that's neither here nor there." Jen adjusts the blanket over her lap when it starts to slip, frowns over a loose string in the afghan, and reaches for the remote when she notices the show she was watching has ended. "How do you feel about seein' him now that you've done it?" she asks, flipping channels absently as she waits for Charlotte's reply. She doesn't have to wait long.

"Good. Really good. It's nice to..."

When it seems like Charlotte's stalled out mid-thought, Jen prompts, "Nice to what, Char?"

"It's nice not to have to try with someone, y'know? I thought it'd be harder, thought it'd be weird, but it's not. I mean, there've been a couple of awkward moments, but mostly it's just... easy. I don't have much in the way of friends here, and Travis and I aren't friends, I guess, I don't really know what we are, but... he's been easy to talk to. Easy to spend time with, and I'm not always good at that stuff."

No, she's not, Jen thinks, especially when she's gotta open herself up to someone new. But Travis isn't new, and she supposes that's the appeal, so she points out the obvious: "Well, he's Travis."

"Yeah, but, he's _Travis_," Charlotte counters, and Jen gets what she means by that, but Char spells it out anyway. "He crushed me. It shouldn't be easier to be with him than with people I've seen every day for months or years."

"Sure it should. You keep all those folks at a distance. Travis is about as close as you can get. He knows all your crap."

"Not all my crap. We've been apart for six years."

Yeah, six years during which Charlotte has vaulted professionally but done almost nothing but spin her wheels in the romance department – until Cooper Freedman, of course. But she doesn't figure that's what Charlotte needs to hear right now, so Jen just tells her, "You're still you. And besides, most of the emotional junk that trips you up with people stems from Travis or your family, does it not?"

"I guess, yeah."

"And Travis is intimately acquainted with all those issues."

"Yeah." Char sigh's again, heavily, and Jen wishes, not for the first time, that she could be in Los Angeles right now, eating ice cream and watching chick flicks and doing all those things you're supposed to do for a best friend when they're being put through the emotional wringer the way Charlotte is. But life is life, and work is work, and sometimes you just can't be there the way you want to be. "It's so weird – he's exactly like I remember him. A bit more penitent, maybe, but he's still so... Travis. We're sittin' around talkin' about the weather, and his parents, and our dog, and... He's just..."

"Chocolate cake," Jen supplies.

"What?"

"He's like chocolate cake," she says again, and now she wants chocolate. There's a bag in the other room, she thinks, pushing off of her sofa and going in search of it as she elaborates for Char. "Familiar, and comforting, and just what you need when your life's goin' to shit?"

Charlotte laughs a little at that, adds, "Plus, he's sweet, and a little bit of an indulgence."

"See? Chocolate cake."

"Yeah. Chocolate cake." She sounds like she's smiling, and Jen's pleased by that. The few times she's talked to Char since her break-up with Cooper, she's sounded like crap. "I like that. That's exactly what it is – he just makes me _feel_ good, y'know? My love life may be crap, but at least this is going right. And it was wrong for so long. It's like this weight has been lifted."

Jen wants to give her the whole I-told-you-so spiel, but it was years ago, and Charlotte was just so torn up by what Travis did that Jen's always understood her motives. Still, she knew if the two of them could just get over themselves and talk, they'd work something out, and it's about damned time. "Well, I'm proud of ya, sweetie," Jen tells her. "This was a long time coming, and I'm glad it's workin' out. How much indulging do you plan on doing with this yummy cake-like ex-honey of yours? You think it might end up goin' somewhere serious again?"

"No," Charlotte answers, and she sounds so certain that Jen wonders if she really means it, or if she's just trying to convince herself. "It's not like that. It's just friendly, we're just spending some time together. I'm in love with Cooper."

"Yeah, but he's not chocolate cake." She's found the chocolate – dark and delicious – and unwraps a square, breaks it in half so as to not be chewing in Char's ear too much when she pops it in her mouth.

"No, but he's Cooper. Travis is a nice distraction from the heartbreak, but he doesn't undo it. And even if he did, he's not an option, Jen. He lives in Georgia; I live here. Even if I wanted it to go somewhere romantic – which I don't – it couldn't."

_You keep tellin' yourself that_, Jen thinks, but she knows Charlotte, and she knew Travis, and she'd be willing to bet a pretty penny that it could, and it might. Especially with Charlotte all blue and moody lately – Travis never could resist coddling her when she was hurting. "What are y'all doing Thursday?"

"He's comin' over for a cooking lesson, because he's apparently concerned I may die of starvation all of a sudden."

Jen smirks, and thinks that sounds just like Travis. "Oh, thank God. Someone ought to take it upon themselves to teach you more than pasta, microwave dinners, and cornbread chicken casserole."

"Hey now," Charlotte chides. "I also make a mean box-mix brownie."

Jen laughs at her, shaking her head. She's pretty sure they've run the entire list of things Char can make from scratch without burning something or someone. Travis, on the other hand, knows his way around a kitchen – she'd joked more than once that she'd picked the wrong brother. Shoulda snapped up Travis and his good cookin' when she had the chance. "This is true. But still. Talk him into teaching you to make those cheese grits – I miss those."

"Oh, God, I almost forgot about those," Charlotte damn near moans, and Jen scoffs her disbelief.

"How could you forget those? Those were like prize-winning grits. Those were good Southern grandma grits. Those were I-know-you-say-you-don't-like-grits-but-try-these-and-tell-me-again grits." In fact, they were so good her mouth is practically watering just at the thought of 'em. It's been ages, years, since the last time she had 'em.

"God, I know. Maybe I blocked them out intentionally, just so I wouldn't have to feel the pain of them no longer being in my life."

Jen laughs again, tells her, "I'd buy it. I always wanted him to teach me to make 'em, but he never would. And Todd didn't exactly inherit the culinary gene, so once you and Travis were splitsville, I hardly ever got a taste of 'em. When we split up for good, I never got 'em."

"Well, I'm sorry my husband's adultery interfered with your breakfast," Charlotte teases, and Jen really can't believe she went there. Can't believe Char's actually making light of something that caused her so much heartbreak. She has half a mind to call up Travis herself and thank him for finally giving that girl some closure and helping her heal up a bit, but he and his big mouth would probably tell Charlotte and then she'd catch hell for stickin' her nose in where it doesn't belong.

Still, if Char's gonna joke about it, Jen's certainly going to encourage the levity, so she says, "Yeah, well, you should be."

"I'll be sure to torture the recipe out of him before he leaves, but I think I'm cooking blind this week," Charlotte tells her, and the conversation lulls for just a moment, just long enough for Charlotte to let out another of those deep, sad sighs, and Jen frowns sympathetically. Apparently, they've run out of levity.

"You alright, honey?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"For real?"

Charlotte chuckles a little, but there's no humor in it. "Yeah. Just tired. Losing my good mood from this afternoon."

"Uh oh."

"Yeah. I'm still not feelin' myself lately. It's like it takes twice the energy just to get through the day, and then I'm wide awake when I'd rather be sleepin'."

"Well, you're nursing a broken heart. It makes everything suck."

"Yeah." It sounds pained, and heavy, and Jen's heart aches a little for her friend. She's not the wreck she was after Travis, but this is still a doozy of a break-up for Charlotte, and Jen knows she's not muscling through it as easily as she'd like. "Sometimes I think I _should_ leave the practice like he wanted me to. Then at least I wouldn't have to see him all the time. Watch him actin' like he's over what we had. Like it... I mean... It wasn't... I wasn't... I thought I meant something to him."

"You did. Please. Char, don't do this to yourself. The guy was with you for damned near two years, and you know I'm not his biggest fan, but even I can tell you that he wouldn't have put in that much time with you if you didn't matter."

"He called me a sex toy."

"And, for that, I'd like to remove his balls with a spork," Jen reminds, thinking maybe it's Cooper Freedman she should call up and give a stern talking-to, but then Charlotte would _definitely_ hand her ass to her, and she doesn't have his number anyway. Lucky him. "But you've gotta move on, sweetie. Playin' those words over and over in your head just hurts you. Feel the pain, live in it for a bit, and then work on lettin' it go."

"I think I have a bit more livin'-in-it to do," Charlotte admits, and Jen is struck by how exhausted she sounds suddenly. Like all her energy's been sapped by just the thought of this man. "I just can't figure out how the man I fell in love with became the guy who could say stuff like that. Hurtful stuff, just to be hurtful. Going for the jugular, y'know?"

"Yeah..."

"And I hate that I want him back, I hate that even after everything he said, and did, I look at him, and I just... there's this ache. My chest hurts. I just want him to..." She hears the tremor in Charlotte's voice, and wonders if it'll be a deluge of tears or just a slow leak. Lord knows Char's due for a good crying jag or five. "I just want him to say he's sorry, and that... we'll work it out." A sniffle, and her voice is even more wobbly now. "I mean, my God, I cheated and he forgave me, why can't he forgive me for not tellin' him about Travis for two years? What damned difference does it make anyway, it's not like I was _still_ married."

"Well, you weren't honest with him, Char."

"And that's my right," she defends, vehemently, and her voice is a little stronger, a little steadier. Slow leak, she thinks. She's getting her bearings back already.

"If you want it to be, sure, but he didn't seem to agree with that. I'm not saying he's right and you're wrong, and you know I don't agree with how he handled things, but you did keep something big from him. I mean, hell, Char, you almost married him, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Without telling him you'd been married before?"

"Yes..."

"He has a right to be mad."

"I've never said he didn't."

"You just said you had a right to be dishonest with him," Jen points out.

"Well... Maybe that's not what I meant."

"Yeah, maybe," she smirks a little, shaking her head.

"I just meant that I have a right to my privacy, and my history, and my issues, and if I don't want to share that with Mr. You-Poor-Thing-Let-Me-Make-It-All-Better, _that's_ my right."

"Okay, but Cooper clearly doesn't see it that way, so you either have to compromise and let him in on that stuff, or you have to accept the fact that it's going to cause a conflict. Or, in this case, a break-up."

Charlotte sighs again, doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and then finally says, "Well, it's a moot point now, because contrary to what Sheldon seems to think, I don't think Cooper wants me anymore. So let's just talk about something else, okay?"

Jen says that's okay, and shifts the topic to something more benign. They spend another forty-five minutes on the phone, and by the time they're ending the call, Char sounds a little better. Before they hang up, Jen makes Charlotte promise to call her next week with a recipe for cheese grits, and, Jen secretly hopes, some better news in the romance department.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** _Since my last Author's Note raised a whole new crop of questions, let me clarify: What I meant by the story deviating is that up until the point where Violet comes back, everything that happens in the story could conceivably be happening offscreen within the show as we all saw it. All the same conversations and interactions could be happening onscreen with the characters, because Charlotte and Travis are very insular -- you're not going to see him with Sheldon or Cooper or anything like that because Charlotte pretty much keeps him to herself. Once Violet comes home, though, it's a lot harder to keep that particular secret, so the story will have to deviate from what we see on the show in order to accommodate having a new player (Travis) in the mix. _

_As for who she will end up with in the end, giving that away this early would be cheating. ;) Stick around and find out -- I promise that Charlotte and Cooper and their relationship will continue to be explored as the story progresses, and I will say this: she loves him. She loved him in the first chapter, she loves him now, and she'll love him in the last chapter. Whether that means they'll end up together or not is something you'll have to stick around and see._

* * *

Charlotte is in a funk. And not even a good funk, not even a funk worth being in. Just one of those woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed blue moods. Nothing went particularly wrong today (sure, the shirt she'd wanted to wear was crumpled in the hamper, and she'd had to try twice to get her car started – which is definitely not a good sign – but aside from that...), but she's spent the whole day feeling like she's lugging boulders uphill. Breathing feels like effort, and routine hospital business seems like a huge hassle. And for no damned reason at all.

She can't even blame it on bad behavior from Cooper – the few times they crossed paths today, he was perfectly civil to her. Hell, she might even go so far as to say he was nice. Which, to be honest, just makes her feels worse, and when she thinks too hard on it, she feels a little bit of a cry coming on, so she's avidly not thinking about it. Not right now, anyway.

Now, she's standing in front of her dresser, barefoot and in her underwear (black and lacy, because she thought maybe sexy skivvies would lift her mood – no luck), trying to pick out something else to wear, because it's Thursday, and Travis is due to arrive soon, and she can't stand the idea of one more minute in heels and a skirt. Truth be told, she'd like to call and tell him to forget it. Stay home. She's bad company tonight. Then, she could just pull on sweats and curl up on the couch with a carton of ice cream and bad TV, and give into the waves of misery that keep sweepin' over her.

God, she's pathetic. She's not canceling, she decides. She can't. She can't let herself wallow in this, and maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to perk her up. He's been good at that. She chews her lip, rifles through her drawers, and God, the sweats are still tempting. But she won't. She won't do that. Instead, she pulls out a pair of jeans, the denim worn soft and comfortable, and her favorite striped hoodie. She pulls on the jeans, then frowns, shucks them off and strips nude, pitching her underwear at the hamper. She's so done with sexy today. She fishes through her underwear drawer, passing over lace and satin and sheer, red and black, and bright, until she finds what she's looking for: cotton. White. Bra and briefs, matching. She slips them on, shrugs back into her clothes, and okay, this feels just a little better. Comfort clothes.

And just in time, too, because she hears the doorbell ring, and takes a deep breath, padding barefoot out of her room and down the stairs to let him in.

He's all friendly smiles, his arms full of grocery bags that he won't let her help him with, and she wishes her spirits would lift at just the sight of him, but they don't. She smiles and says hello, and it's good to see him again, and just hopes he buys it. He tilts his head a little, frowns, and she knows he doesn't. But she's not going to wallow, damnit, she's not going to let this get in the way of their evening, so she brightens her smile, and steals of one those bags from him despite his protest, heading for the kitchen and asking over her shoulder, "So what are we making tonight?"

"_You_," he tells her, "are making salmon burgers. And a salad." He sets bag number two on the kitchen counter next to the one she just set down. "See? I can cater to your Los Angeles, beachy, rabbit-food-loving tastes."

Charlotte smiles a little, doesn't say anything, chips a little spot of something off the countertop with her thumbnail, and thinks Jen would be so disappointed with the lack of grits.

He tries to tip her chin up with his finger, and she turns her head out of his reach, fast, and wishes she hadn't. It seems bitchy. She just wasn't expecting the touch, and she's... she's just out of sorts. God. This is awful. She hates this damned day.

"You disapprove of the menu?" he asks, tucking his hands into his pockets, and he looks a little concerned, a little put-out, a little disappointed, and now she just feels bad.

"No," she insists, smiling again. "Sounds delicious." And it does, it really does. She's just... blah. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

"But?"

"I was just expecting, y'know, chicken fried steak or somethin'."

"Well, I thought about it, but then I thought you might prefer somethin' lighter." He's unpacking the bags, pulling out peppers and cucumbers, greens and a head of garlic, and little bottles of sesame oil and soy sauce. "Was I wrong?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "Yeah. I mean, no – salmon burgers really do sound delicious, I mean it." She hopes it doesn't sound false, because it's true, she means it, and when he pulls out a couple of salmon filets, already cooked and tucked into a Ziplock, she actually feels just a little hungry for the first time in almost eight hours. "I was just... thinking I might get some good, Southern comfort food. Jen wants grits by proxy."

Travis chuckles a little at that, looks sheepish. "I guess I shoulda asked first, huh?" He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and smiles, then says, "And Jen can have that grits recipe when she pries it from my cold, dead hands. It's a family secret."

"They're just grits," Charlotte points out, almost chuckling at him. This has been going on for years, with him and Jen bickering over 'secret family recipes.' French toast, grits, a casserole or two, red velvet cake. She knows half the recipes are nothing special, that the real trick is usually 'cooking with love' as Travis used to say, but that never seemed to matter to them.

"Just grits, huh? You tell that to Jen."

"Maybe I will."

"Mm. Go right ahead." He sets a bell pepper down in front of her, reaches for the knife block and pulls one out, hands it to her. "Then tell me how that goes over -- and tell her hello. Cutting board?"

"Um..." Charlotte glances around, tries to remember which cupboard she stashed it in when Violet left without putting it away. (And honestly, how could she stand to just leave things sitting around? Charlotte's never understood the charm of clutter. That's what shelves and cabinets were for.)

Travis laughs at her, shakes his head. "Can't even find a cutting board in your own home."

"It's not my home," Charlotte reminds, unearthing the cutting board and waiting for him to pick up the pepper again before setting it down.

"But how long have you lived here?" he asks, setting the pepper back down and setting the knife in her hand. "Cut off the stem and the butt, then cut through these ribs here and you can pop out the whole core. Get rid of the seeds in one go."

Charlotte nods and sets about doing just that while she answers, "Few months. But I've done most of my cooking in the microwave. Didn't need the cutting board."

"That's just sad," he teases, reaching over suddenly and stilling her hand as she's about to cut off the bottom of the pepper. "You're gonna hit your thumb."

Charlotte realizes that, yes, she just might, and shifts the hand holding the pepper so her finger is out of the danger zone. "Sorry," she murmurs, slicing through. Travis tips the pepper onto it's now-flat bottom, and points to the places where the core joins the outside of the pepper.

"Nothing to be sorry about. Now there, and there, and there." She does as he instructs, and sure enough, the core and seeds come out easy as pie. "Now, just cut down the side right here, and then we're gonna mince it."

"Okay." She does as he says, keeps her eyes on the pepper, and for a minute, the only sound is the crisp slice of the knife.

Then, Travis asks, "You alright, Lola? You're awfully quiet."

She's about to tell him that yes, she's fine (she's always fine), but she knows he can see right through her on days like this. Always could. So she lifts her head, forces a little smile and tells him, "Just having one of those days."

"Ah." He says, and she likes that he knows exactly what she means by that. She certainly wasn't lying when she told Jen it was nice to spend time with someone who knew her. Someone she doesn't have to explain herself for. He's studying her now, frowning a little, like he's trying to figure something out, and she thinks about asking him what he's scowling over, but she's just not in the mood to be pushy tonight, so she turns her attention back to the knife in her hand, the food on the cutting board. It's almost a full minute later before he says, "I can rub your neck if you want."

She almost falters, glances up for just half a second, then looks back to her cutting board. She wants to tell him yes; she should probably tell him no. As familiar as they are, she's not quite sure what they're doing yet. "You don't have to do that."

"I know."

She doesn't say anything, and he sighs a little, then steps up right behind her and sets his hands on her shoulders, digs his thumbs in a slow circle just below the nape of her neck. Charlotte stops cutting; Travis stills his hands.

"Want me to stop?"

After a second, she decides, "No," and starts cutting again. Travis just keeps rubbing. She can't remember how many times he's done this – too many to count, surely. This was just how they worked, once. She'd be all broody and blue, restless and sad for some reason, or no reason, and he'd ask her what was wrong. _Just one of those days_, she'd say, and then this. Strong fingers, rubbing little half-dollar circles into just that spot until the tension eased out, or the words came out, or until she just felt a little more human again.

And suddenly, she misses that so hard it hurts. She wishes she could just pretend. Just for a second. Pretend things are the way they were when they were married, and happy, and her life wasn't such a goddamned mess. And then she figures, screw it. Screw it. Why not? Why shouldn't she give herself just one minute of comfort in the shit storm that has been her life of late?

She sets the knife down, keeps her eyes trained firmly on the cutting board, and tells him, "I'm gonna lean back and shut my eyes right now, and when I'm done we're going to pretend it never happened, okay?"

"Okay." Bless him.

She leans back, lets her eyes drop shut, and she's almost embarrassed by the deep exhale she lets out, but truth be told, right now she's too keyed up to even worry about embarrassed. Besides, it's Travis. He's seen her worse.

His thumbs keep digging slow circles into the tense spots just below her neck, his rhythm steady and soothing, and if she tries hard enough she can almost imagine they're back in their kitchen in Georgia. Almost. Almost, but not quite, and she's not sure where this melancholy mood came from today but it is a doozy. She can't shake the painful throb in her chest, can't shake the sinking feeling, can't shake the loneliness. But she can stand here, and let him rub circles into her skin, and maybe it will help just a little.

She feels another surge of melancholy, and if she was a weaker woman, she'd give in and start up with the waterworks right about now. But she's not, so she just breathes in and out, tries to keep her breath from hitching, tries to focus on the feel of his thumbs on her. She manages to keep the tears at bay, but she knows he knows her well enough to tell how close she is. Sure enough, after a minute, he slides one arm around the front of her shoulders, then the other, until he's holding her gently, and she thinks maybe she should stop him, but it just feels too good to be held. To be touched by someone. It feels like it's been ages since someone has been tender with her, or hell, even touched her for something other than sex, so she brings her hands up, wraps her fingers around his wrists and holds on. She lets her weight sink back into him even further, and he rests his chin against her head. She can feel his breath against her hair, can feel his body solid and sturdy behind her, and the words tumble out of her before she's even really realized that this is her problem: "Travis, my heart is broken."

He sighs, murmurs, "Oh, junebug," and tries to turn her in his arms, but she resists. That wasn't the deal. She was going to just lean for a minute, just a minute, and then they were going to forget all this. "C'mon, junebug," he coaxes again, voice soft and sympathetic, and she's not sure if she's grateful for that or wants to punch him in the teeth for letting her act this way. She shakes her head. "Just turn around. C'mon."

She wants to. Wants to just turn around and lean on him. And she can, she knows she can, and that's the sick thing. Because he's her ex-husband, her ex-husband that she could hardly stand to think of for years, and now he's in her kitchen, coddling her. And Cooper won't even give her the time of day. She feels another sharp pang in her chest, and gives in, turns and wraps her arms loosely around his waist, presses her forehead into his shoulder and just breathes.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, one hand sliding up into her hair and tangling there, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles up and down her back. He still smells the same – exactly the same. Detergent and aftershave and a hint of cologne. It's comforting and familiar. Chocolate cake, she thinks, and she finds herself talking again without really thinking.

"He said things. Really mean, awful things. And I don't know, maybe he didn't mean them, but maybe he did. What if he did?" Before he can say anything, she adds, "Which I guess is par for the course, if you think about it – men I love gettin' pissed and sayin' things to me that they don't mean. First you, then him. And I just... Is it me? Is it something about me? Do I just bring it on myself? Like, 'oh, go ahead, say whatever you want. Charlotte's tough, she can take it.'"

"No, junebug," he tells her, finally cutting her off. "It's not you. Sometimes we say stupid things, but it's not you." If she's not mistaken, he just pressed a kiss onto the top of her head. She can't even try to pretend she minds right now.

"I just... I tried, you know? Maybe I was wrong, but I tried to make it right. I tried to apologize, but he wouldn't listen." She feels him breathe out what sounds like a dry chuckle, and the irony isn't lost on her. He's certainly been there before. His little laugh doesn't sound malicious, though, so she lets herself keep talking. "I tried to make it right, but nothing I did made it any better. And now I have to see him every day, and it just... hurts. I love him so much. I don't want to. I wish I didn't. I wish I could just get over it already. Stop feelin' this way."

"It takes time," he tells her, and yes, he definitely just kissed her hair again, nudged his nose against her and squeezed her tighter. And no, she decides, she doesn't mind a bit. She presses herself closer, until she can feel him against every inch of her front, and takes another deep breath of soap-cologne-Travis. The tightness around her heart eases just a little.

"I know. I just want to feel better. I want to not feel this way, not over some guy, not over some guy who was selfish and hurtful and..." She sighs, leans back a little, and studies the logo on his t-shirt instead of meeting his eyes. "It's just... I don't really have anybody here. I don't have much in the way of friends." Her voice shakes a little and God, she hates it. "I just... had him. And now I don't." Her chin quivers, and she bites her lips together hard because she really would rather not get all weepy in front of him, and certainly not over heartbreak.

But then he's sliding his hand from her hair to her chin, tipping her face up to look at him, and she's resorting to more deep breaths to keep herself under control. "Hey. We were friends once, right? You can have me."

Well, shit. Why's he gotta go and say things like that? She feels the tears well and bites the inside of her lip, hard, to keep herself together. Then she points out, "You're leavin.'"

"I'll be here for a couple months, by the looks of things now. Let me keep your mind off it."

"I don't know, Trav..."

"Hey." Both hands in her hair now, smoothing it back from her face, then locking his fingers loosely at the base of her skull. "I care about you. Always have, always will. And I can't just sit by and let you hurt. I want be here for you. You shouldn't have to be heartbroken alone. Let me be your friend again, Lola."

She thinks it should seem like a bad idea on so many levels, but she can't deny that the last three minutes or so have been a much more bearable heartbreak than the nights she's spent crying alone in bed, trying to keep her tears silent enough that Violet can't hear them (or almost worse, the nights since Violet's been gone when she could cry as hard as she damn well pleased). And she just wants... someone. Wants to have someone she can spend time with, and turn to, and not have it mean anything or expect it to go anywhere. Someone she doesn't have to pretend with, or explain herself to.

So she finds herself whispering, "Okay," and lifting her hand to swipe at the tear that managed to get loose. He beats her there, brushing it away with his thumb, and when their eyes meet for a second, she feels something click, and she's suddenly very aware that they're hip-to-hip, breathing each other's air. She was so distracted by her own stuff that she didn't realize quite the extent to which she got them wrapped around each other. His eyes flick to her mouth, and she watches him press his own lips together, then lick them a little, and she knows exactly what he's thinking. It may not be the appropriate reaction, but she can't hold back the chuckle. "You want to kiss me right now, don't you?" she asks, and she's not sure why it charms her so much, but it does. Maybe it's because she likes knowing that after all these years, he still wants her. Maybe it's because she likes knowing that someone wants her at all.

"Yeah," he admits, with a little shrug, and she appreciates his entire lack of shame about the whole thing. "I do. Pretty girls do that to me from time to time. Should I be sorry?"

She smiles at him, the first real, genuine smile she's felt all night, and shakes her head. "No." She thinks it would be a bad idea to kiss him, really kiss him, but Lord, she wants to. Apparently she's not quite over the whole sex-as-anesthesia thing yet. But he's done her a kindness just now, been so sweet, and so damned good to her that she thinks maybe he deserves a little reward. Maybe they both do. And hell, she did say he was an indulgence, didn't she? So she lifts her hands, cups his cheeks and meets him halfway for a short, chaste press of lips. It's not romantic, not lingering, but she still feels a little spark of heat in her belly at the contact. But she eases away, tells him, "There," and he hovers for just a second until she reminds, "Friends."

He nods, pulling back a little. "Right."

"And this never happened?"

He rolls his eyes at her a little, but smirks and placates, "What never happened?" and then he turns her again, lifts the knife into her hand. "You finish cutting that. It'll make you feel better."

"Chopping things will make me feel better?" she asks with a lift of her brow.

He laughs a little at that, leans his hip against the counter next to her, and says, "Well, I suppose that might, yeah. But I just meant cooking. It's good for the soul."

She nods, hefts the knife more comfortably in her hand and thinks that he may be right about that. After all, her dark cloud is starting to lift already. By the time they're noshing on salmon burgers – which _are_ absolutely delicious, and not burnt one bit, she's proud to say – he has her laughing, and when he leaves, late, after an impromptu viewing of _Annie Hall_, she shuts the door behind him and thinks this is good. Having him back in her life, being friends, is good. And if she still feels that spark in her gut when their eyes meet from time to time, well, that's just to be expected, considering their history. And since it feels good, and so much else right now doesn't, she's resolved not to worry herself over it. Not one bit.


	13. Chapter 13

She doesn't see Travis again for another week, not until he texts her one day with: "Off tonight. Come over. Pizza?" It's as good a plan as any, she figures, so she gets his address and runs home to change before she heads over. She parks street-side, and notices that he's right – Luke Seever's house is certainly nothing to scoff at. It's not huge compared to some in Hollywood, but it takes up the corner of its block, all double doors and half-circle drive, and ivy climbing over brick. Tall hedges hide the view of the backyard, and there's a double-car garage with square-paned windows above it. That's where he's staying, she knows, so she walks up the edge of the drive, and finds the door near the back of the garage. She knocks, twice, and can just barely hear his footfalls on the stairs before he opens the door.

"You made it."

"I did," she nods, smiling, and adjusting her purse. "You sure I didn't need to bring anything?"

"Positive," he tells her, stepping back to let her into the postage-stamp sized entry. "Pizza can be delivered, and I've already got the beer – you do still drink beer, right?" he teases, shutting the door and heading up the stairs.

Charlotte rolls her eyes and follows. "Yes. I do still drink beer. Smartass." She notes the tennis shoes and boots haphazardly lining the little landing at the top of the stairs, and toes off her flats, tucking them neatly in the corner.

He turns when he realizes she's not right behind him, and says, "You can leave 'em on if you want. I don't mind."

"Not great for the floors," she points out, privately admiring the light-painted hardwood. The floors and trim are a muted blue, the walls creamy white. It gives the whole place a cool, soothing feel and she makes a mental note of it for when she finally gets her own place.

There's a door a few feet down on the left, another one a few feet further on the right. The one on the right is open and she can see a double bed – unmade and with what looks like a pair of jeans and a t-shirt crumpled on one side. (Typical Travis. He was never good at keeping things straightened – until she beat it into him to pick up after himself or risk his stuff getting tossed, that is.)

He shrugs a little. "The floors are holdin' up just fine. You want the tour?"

"Sure."

He points to the door on the left. "Bathroom's in here. Ignore the window, all you can see out it is the rooftop next door and if you squint hard from just the right angle, the bathroom two houses down. Nobody's lookin' at ya."

She peeks in, and sure enough, there's one of those big square windows, trim painted the same blue, an old metal latch on one side. There's a toilet, a sink tiled in dark blue (matching mini mosaic tiles on the floor – it's charming), with a mirrored medicine cabinet above. He's left his razor out next to the sink, and his shave cream. She itches to put the tube of toothpaste into the cup with the toothbrush, wonders if the mouthwash and shave kit would fit in the medicine cabinet. Then she remembers this isn't her space, he isn't her husband, and she should quit nitpicking his tidiness.

"This is the bedroom," he tells her, and she turns to find him pointing at the door across the hall – which is closed now, mess out of sight, she notes with a little smirk. She wonders if he thinks she'd scold him for it. "And this..." he says, heading down the short hallway into the open space beyond, "Is everything else."

"Everything else" is a living room, spacious enough to almost be considered airy – especially with more of those windows on each wall. These are open, swinging in on their hinges to let in fresh air. They're a little low on the wall, six panes each, and it takes her a second to realize that the only artificial light in the room is from one tall floor lamp. The rest of the light is fading daylight pouring in those windows, and after the relative dimness of Violet's Spanish-style home and décor, the influx of natural light almost makes Charlotte's heart pound. "I love these windows," she marvels quietly, and Travis chuckles at her.

"I bet you do. They seem your type." And he'd know, after years of living with her and her penchant to flip the décor in any given room on a whim. One time he'd come home from touring for a few months to find she'd rearranged and slip-covered the living room, bought a new bedroom set, painted the kitchen cabinets, and replaced the dinette. He'd bitched that it was like coming home to a stranger's house, like the only thing that was the same as when he left, the only thing that resembled home, was the outside. The next time he left, she'd restrained herself to just the master bath.

"We needed these windows," she tells him. "These are the windows I wanted in the upstairs, I just didn't know it until right now."

He laughs again, shakes his head at her. "Yeah, well, redoing all the windows would have been a bitch of a project."

"Y'all redid the back porch," she points out, remembering the summer she spent studying to the din of saws and hammers, and hollering guys in the backyard – until she spent it studying on a four-season porch with big windows, and hardwood floors, and a cushioned wicker chaise.

"And it was a bitch of a project," he reminds, reaching for the phone perched on top of black, glass-paneled cabinets stuffed full with DVDs and books. She wonders how many of them are his, wonders which things he couldn't stand to be without for a few months. Wonders if she'd recognize them. "Topping preference? Pepperoni? Hawaiian? Everything?"

"Everything – no anchovies."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he mutters. "You'd make me eat every single one." He flashes her another smile and dials, and Charlotte takes in the rest of the room. There's a worn leather sofa, black, and matching easy chair with an ottoman at the end that's big enough to be its own chair, she thinks. Coffee table is simple, glass-topped, matching the single end-table between the sofa and the chair. They're not his style at all.

She spies his laptop tucked between the sofa and the end table, and it strikes her suddenly that everything in here is ruthlessly organized. There are magazines in a tidy stack on the coffee table, not a shoe or book or DVD on the floor. He cleaned for her. He must've. Travis just isn't this neat on his own.

Tucked into one corner is a tiny kitchenette – nothing more than a sink and little stove, a mini-fridge and a tower of plastic shelving wedged between that and the wall. The shelves are crammed full with non-perishables and a few pans, a toaster. If there's anything that screams 'temporary residence,' she thinks, this is it. Travis would never settle down in a place without a decent kitchen.

When he's finished on the phone, she ribs him for it a little. "This kitchen kills you, doesn't it?"

Travis rolls his eyes, and scoffs. "That's not a kitchen. That's just enough space to keep a man from starving."

Charlotte laughs a little at him, adjusts her grip on the purse she's yet to put down. "Maybe we should switch."

"Don't tempt me." He reaches a hand out for her. "Gimme your bag. Settle in."

She surrenders the bag, but doesn't sit. She's still taking everything in. Her eye catches the keyboard in the corner, the three guitars (acoustic, electric, bass) on stands next to it. Amps hugged up against the sofa. She hasn't touched a guitar in ages, and she finds herself walking over to them, admiring, rubbing her thumb across the glossy finish of the head of one. "Pick it up," he invites. "Play a bit."

Charlotte shakes her head, sits herself on the little bench at the keyboard, her back to it. "I don't play," she tells him.

Travis frowns at that, gives her a look. "What do you mean you don't play? I know you do; I taught you."

"I don't play... anymore," she clarifies, and feels a little swirl of nerves in her belly as she watches his face shift, go from doubtful and confused to knowing and a little disturbed. This conversation promises to be less than fun.

"Why not?" he asks, and she can tell from his tone that the question is pointless. He already has the answer.

"Guess," she tells him, because why are they playing this game?

"No."

"Travis."

"Why?"

"Because you taught me," she tells him, straightening her spine and leveling him with a look. "Okay? It hurt too much. Pickin' up a guitar, or sittin' at the piano, it was just too much. All I could think of was you, and us, and how everything had fallen apart. And, you may recall, I didn't take my guitar when I left."

"Yeah, I just figured you'd get anoth-" He seems to catch himself mid-sentence, like he's just heard something, and sure enough he stutters a little and then asks, "Wait - you don't even play the piano anymore?"

"No."

"_Lola_."

It's half-scold, half something she can't even identify, and he's starting to look a little like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Like as bad as everything was between them, this is something he never expected, and why would he? To a guy like Travis, cutting out the music would be unfathomable. With as hurt as she'd been, keeping it had been impossible.

"You've been playing piano since you were – I – That had nothin' to do with me. You've been playing since pre-school."

"It's different," she says, and it sounds weak even to her, but how can she explain? How can she possibly explain that twelve years of piano, of recitals, of Chopin and Mozart, and showy ragtime pieces that made her fingers dizzy and cramped were so vastly different from the ten years she spent with him, noodling out bluesy compositions and moody country tunes and learning contemporary pieces until she could play "Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me" in her sleep if she'd wanted. The technique predated him, but the _music? _ The music came to life with Travis.

"No, don't 'it's different' me," he says, moving to sit on the arm of the sofa just across from her. "This isn't... You..." He's struggling with words, struggling to wrap his head around this and she actually feels bad for putting him through this, because she knows how much the music meant – and then she feels bad for feeling bad, because damnit, he's the one who did the damage in the first place. Maybe he gets to feel a little bit bad for it. "Lola, you're a musician."

"You're a musician," she corrects. "I was a musician's wife."

"No," he tells her, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "No, you can't say that. You may not be a performer, but you're a musician, and you know it, so don't lie to yourself."

"I'm not lyin'-"

"Yeah, you are. You could play piano or guitar in your sleep, you know your way around a bass guitar, a mandolin. Hell, you can play a harmonica and drum kit if you really need too – I've seen it. So don't you say that you're not a musician. Don't you say that that part of you is just..."

"I _was_ a musician," she concedes, because he's right, she can't exactly deny she has the skills. "But I'm not anymore."

"So, what? You divorced the music with the musician?"

"Yes."

"That's ridiculous."

"Well, thank you for your sensitivity." She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, feels herself slipping into a glare. This is not at all how she expected this evening to go.

"Charlotte, why-"

"Because you cheated. You cheated, and you cut me down when I needed you most, and I could barely stand to look at myself much less you or anything that had even the slightest bit to do with you. So how was I supposed to do it, Travis? How was I supposed to pick up a guitar, when all it made me think of was you adjusting my fingers on the frets when you were teachin' me to play, or sit down at the piano when you were the one who made me love it again when I was so damned sick of scales and sonatas and show pieces. I knew how to make sound come out of an instrument, but that's not the same as makin' music, and you know that. You're the one who told me that. That there's more to music than sound, it's about feeling and emotion and mood and connection, remember? So how, Travis? How was I supposed to keep the music when everything that I felt was awful. How was I supposed to sit down and play when all it did was make me hurt? How was I supposed to make music when all it made me think of was the life that I'd lost, the marriage that I'd lost, the partner that I'd--" Her voice breaks a little, and she steels herself, digs her nails hard into her palms to keep herself focused. "I couldn't do it, Trav. It hurt to be that open, I had to shut it down."

He's looking at his hands now, chewing the inside of his lip, and she knows she's hurt him, but damnit he hurt her too. They're a mess of hurt, the two of them, and maybe it's just stupid of them to think that they could be friends, that they could ever be anything other than a bad taste left in each others' mouths, because sometimes when something goes so sour, there's not a damned thing that can be done to make it sweet again.

"No." It's so quiet, she almost doesn't hear it at first, but then he says it again, stands and moves toward her. He looks like he doesn't know what to do with this, doesn't know how to process it, and his hands are a little rough when they grab her shoulders and start to turn her. "Turn around. You're playing. Right now."

She shrugs his hands off her and stays put just the way she is. "Don't you manhandle me."

He shoves his hands in his pockets, sucks in a breath, and let's it out again. "Sorry, I just-" He straddles the bench next to her, and the look he gives her is so sad, so guilt-ridden that she can't keep his gaze. She looks at her hands instead, clasped tightly in her lap. "Lola. Look at me."

She shakes her head.

"Please."

She raises her head just enough to meet his gaze from under her lashes. "I'm sorry. What I did... it was awful. I know it. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I took so much from you, but you've gotta do this. You've gotta let me fix this, we've gotta fix this. You can't just stop up the music, Charlotte. You can't just stuff down the feelings and hope they stay that way – you never could. That's why I always pushed you to play. You keep everything so tight, you go crazy. You know that."

Oh, does she ever, Charlotte thinks. Keeping everything close to the vest is how she stays sane. Keeping a tight lid on the more turbulent feelings is how she keeps herself respectable and in control of her life, but she'd be the first to admit (if she trusted you, and if you got a few strong drinks in her) that it's exhausting to hold it all in for so long. That she needs an outlet, needs something to pour all this extra emotional junk into. But that's what she has sex for, and in lieu of that, she runs. She can pound her feet against pavement over, and over, or pound her body into another person's over and over, and eventually she'll exhaust all that emotional garbage and feel steady again. But it's not as good as the music, she knows. It never was.

"C'mon." His hands settle on her shoulders again, but more gently this time. "C'mon, we'll fix it. We'll play. You can play again. Please. You can't – I have to fix this, Lola. I have to make this right."

He does, she realizes. He has to do this for her. And she has to let him, she supposes, because she's forgiven him (really, she has, she's trying so hard to), and because she doesn't want what happened between them to cause any more hurt for either of 'em. So she turns, slowly, until she's facing the keys. Travis reaches over and presses the power button on the keyboard, adjusts something, and then reaches for her wrists, lifting one and then the other until her fingers are resting on the keys, on either side of middle C. Her heart starts to pound, and her palms are suddenly damp. This feels like one of those moments, one of those my-life-before-and-after moments, like walking in on him and Trish, or Cooper showing up for their blind hook-up, or the day she got the job at St. Ambrose. She tells herself not to be stupid, that it's just a piano, and she's played a thousand times before.

"What do you want me to play?"

"Anything."

Anything. She had a brain full of songs, a whole repertoire of classical, and ragtime, and blues, and country, and right now she can't think of a one. She closes her eyes, ignores the tightness in her chest. Presses the keys down in a major chord, shifts to a minor, not playing anything yet, just testing. The keyboard sounds a little false, it doesn't resonate quite like the piano they'd had, but it's still decent. She wonders if it was expensive. She tries to find something to play, anything to play, as he urges her softly again.

She tests another chord, then plays it again, again, and then starts slowly, hesitantly into the beginning of "Imagine," by John Lennon. She feels Travis let out a breath next to her, blinks her eyes open and stares at the keys. It comes back to her, easy, like falling off a log. And then she hears his voice, low and familiar, "You may say I'm a dreamer... but I'm not the only one."

She lifts her head, tests out a voice that hasn't been used without a radio for back-up in quite a while: "I hope someday you'll join us." Their voices blend just like they used to, but a bit more tentative and quiet as they finish out the rest of the song. She lets the last chord fade, and just sits there. She feels a little like crying, and she's not sure why, but then he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her against him. She lets her head rest on his shoulder, fingers still on the keys and he tells her, "I'm so sorry, Lola." Turns his head to press his lips to her brow. "If I could undo all the hurt, I would."

"I know," she whispers, and just leans there for another minute, before lifting her head. "I forgave you. It's okay."

"It's not okay," he says, lifting his fingers to tuck her hair behind her ears on either side, and she brings her hands up to wrap around his wrists. Their foreheads touch and they sit there for another minute, just breathing together. "It's not okay."

"I'll be okay," she assures him, she's not sure why. It just seems the thing to say. "I'm okay."

Travis shakes his head a little and pulls back, puts her hands back on the keys. "Play me another?"

She smiles a little and nods, then says, "Only if you play with me."

Travis smiles now, but it's tight, and sad, and it doesn't reach his eyes. Still, he reaches for his acoustic, and they spend the twenty minutes until the pizza arrives picking songs they can play together. With every one, Charlotte feels something inside her crack open just a little bit further.


	14. Chapter 14

Charlotte's on her third piece of pizza, feeling like a glutton, when Travis' cell phone starts ringing. He frowns at it, then pauses the episode of Mythbusters they've been watching and says, "I've gotta take this," before answering. Charlotte waves a hand dismissively – you've gotta take the calls you've gotta take, after all.

"Hi," he answers, and she can tell by the low tone of his voice that this isn't a business call. "It's late; is everything okay?" East Coast, she thinks. It's not quite what one would consider too-late-to-call here in LA. He's still frowning, until suddenly he isn't. Suddenly he's smiling, chuckling a little and saying, "Yeah, of course. Put her on." Charlotte feels a bit like a voyeur, so she shifts her gaze to her pizza, picks off a black olive and pops it in her mouth. Then does it again. Her ears are all on him though.

"Hey, cricket." His voice is even softer now, and if that wasn't a good indication he was talking to a child, he follows it with, "Momma says you're havin' bad dreams, huh?" Charlotte's heart is torn between melting and breaking. "Monsters? Well, you tell those big bad monsters that they've gotta reckon with me if they want to get to you." She smiles, and it's almost painful. "What?" he scoffs. "I am too scary. I'm a big, scary guy. I can kill any monster deader than dirt, and don't you ever doubt it."

Travis had always been good with kids. His cousin Bailey was a goddamned baby factory, and there'd been more than one family cookout where she'd watched him tear ass around the back yard after the boys, or patch up scrapes and flirt harmlessly with the girls. She used to think what a great dad he'd be if they ever got around to having babies. And then they'd been thrust into the idea of parenthood and had it taken away just as quickly, and when everything went to hell in a handbasket, she'd vowed never to think of babies again. Until Cooper, that is. She'd wanted babies with Cooper.

"Why, yes, little ma'am, I will. They won't come within a frog's hair of ya, I promise. And if they do, I'll take 'em out quicker than they can blink." She wonders about the little girl on the other end of the line. Wonders what it was like to have Travis as a daddy for a little while, to have him as a surrogate daddy now. Wonders what he'd have been like with their kid, if she hadn't lost it. Her heart aches, and it's getting a little hard to breathe in here. "I promise, cricket. You're safe as houses. Just close your eyes and imagine me right there with ya, keepin' you safe. Okay. Sleep tight, and don't let the bed bugs bite." He chuckles again, and then kills her: "Love you bunchies and bunchies and banana boat munchies right back, cricket."

He hangs up, and looks at her, and the anxiety must be written all over her face because suddenly he's apologizing. "I'm sorry – I should have taken that in the other room."

Charlotte swallows down the hurt and forces a smile, shaking her head. "No, it's fine. The monsters all taken care of?"

"Yeah. She has night terrors sometimes. She had a real bad one once, and I talked her down and tucked her back in, and in the morning she said when the monsters came back I killed 'em for her and kept her safe. So every once in a while now, they'll call real late so I can talk to Kota. As long as I promise to protect her, the monsters never win, she says. Swears it only works if they hear it straight from me."

It's so quaintly domestic, so everyday and parental, that Charlotte almost wants to scream. Her own parents were God-awful soothers, and the nannies never stayed nights. Charlotte fought her own monsters, stayed up wide-eyed and scared in her big princess bed through the fury of thunderstorms and nightmares. She still has the night terrors, now and then. Awful, drowning dreams, where she's pushed under and held down, and fight as she might, she can't ever break free. Travis always talked her through, just like he did Kota, with soft words and soothing hands, and promises that he'd never let her down. She'd sworn up and down that if she ever had kids, they'd get the full Evans kiss-and-cuddle treatment instead of the nothing's-under-that-bed-now-you'd-better-get-back-in-it that she got. But Evans babies weren't in the cards for her, and she wasn't the kiss and cuddle type on her own. She feels cheated, on two counts. But there's nothing to be done to change that now, so she just finds herself thinking of little Dakota and saying, "She sounds sweet."

"As pie." He looks at her for a second, really looks at her, that way he does that'd make her feel naked through a parka. When he opens his mouth again, what he says makes her stomach drop. "Y'know, we never really talked about what happened..."

She doesn't need the clarification. They both know he's talking about the miscarriage. "We talked about it when it happened."

"Not really. Not enough."

"I'm not a talker."

"Charlotte-" He reaches over, threads his fingers lightly with hers and squeezes.

"I'm not a talker," she tells him again, before he can start in with something sweet and soothing meant to wear her down. This is one conversation she is not willing to have with him.

"You are when you wanna be."

"Well, I don't wanna be."

"We should've talked-"

"You talked to Todd. I know you talked to your parents, to..." Trisha's name dies on her lips. She can't quite bring herself to go there.

"They're not my wife," he tells her, and she thinks maybe she dropped the ball in their marriage more times than she knows. "None of them were my wife."

"Travis, I don't want to talk about this, okay?"

"Lola-"

"I don't want to talk about this right now," she says, more sternly. This whole thing makes her heart hurt too much. "I can't."

He doesn't say anything for a minute, just looks at her, and when she sneaks a glance at him, he's watching her with this expression on his face that says he's disappointed in this, in how this conversation is going, but she just doesn't have it in her.

"It's in the past. It's done, it happened, talking about it won't undo it, so let's just not, okay?" she tries again, and he sighs, nods his head.

"Fine." Then he gives her hand a little tug. "C'mere." Charlotte doesn't budge. She's not entirely sure that she won't actually cry if he ends up holdin' her, and she's already let him baby her through a heartache once in the recent past. She doesn't want this to become a pattern. But he's persistent, wrapping his other arm around her bicep, and telling her again, "Come _here_."

She lets him reel her in until she's resting against him, her head on his shoulder, and she tells herself she does it because if she can't give him the conversation he wants (the one she apparently couldn't give him years ago, either), the least she can do is let him comfort her a little. She knows him well enough to know he draws from that as much as she does. He traces his fingers through her hair in slow, lazy passes, and presses a kiss to her forehead; she closes her eyes.

After a minute, she exhales, says the only thing she can think of right now: "Life is unfair, Travis."

He chuckles, but it's a little bitter. She thinks she knows the feeling. "Yeah. It is."

"We got dealt a shitty hand. We were supposed to have a marriage, and a family, and a life, and we got... crap."

He kisses the top of her head again, tugs her arm across his body and wraps his other over her shoulders. "Yeah. But we had some good years, didn't we?"

She tilts her head up to look at him, smiles through the sadness. "So, what? We should just be grateful for what we had?"

"What else can we be?" he asks, and she thinks they can be a whole lot things. Angry, bitter, resentful, hurt. She knows because she's been all of them, over this, for years. She can forgive him, she thinks. She has, in fact. But forgiving life is a whole other story, so she just tilts her head back down, reaches her hand over to press PLAY on the remote. They stay that way, pressed together, for the rest of this episode and all through the next, and she tries not to think about the miscarriage anymore. When she finally sits up, intent on heading home before it gets to be too late, she's all out of whack and has to squeeze her shoulder to work out the ache. His hands cover hers, warm and familiar, kneading gently and after that it takes her another five minutes to muster up the will to leave. Still, her neck twinges the whole drive home.


	15. Chapter 15

Charlotte is officially crazy. She tells herself that this isn't insane, that it's just a fun excursion, and it'll be good to get away, but she knows, deep down, that she's nuts. Because how else can she explain away how close she is to moving her Saturday appointment (it's just one patient, and it's not a problem that can't wait another week), booking an overnight stay in San Francisco, and buying the last two spots on an Alcatraz tour?

It's Travis' fault. He came over yesterday, made her a gigantic Southern Sunday brunch – complete with cheese grits, eggs, biscuits and gravy, and coffee so strong she was wired until damn near midnight. It was heart-stopping, and delicious, and they followed it by fussing around out back and replacing the little garden that Violet had planted (and Charlotte had killed – something Travis ridiculed her for, then told her was downright rude and needed fixing). Then they sat around like lumps on the sofa, watching a Travel Channel marathon on haunted places and doing the puzzles in the Sunday paper.

There'd been a whole hour on Alcatraz, and halfway through he'd gotten the idea in her head with a simple, "I wanna take that tour."

She'd asked him if he meant it, if he really wanted to go, and he'd said that _absolutely, he'd love to, he's never been to San Francisco_. And in classic Travis-with-an-idea fashion, he'd pushed on: "I'm free all next weekend."

She wasn't, she'd told him. She had work to do on Saturday, and it couldn't be missed, but they could take a rain check. They could maybe go another time. He'd pouted playfully, call her a spoilsport, and turned his attention back to the TV.

But she's been thinking about it now, and hell, why not? I mean, yes, it's irresponsible, and she doesn't generally do irresponsible. And it's a six-hour drive (or a short flight – but she knows him, she knows he'll want to drive it), so they'd either have to exhaust themselves with the drive there and back, or bunk in San Francisco for the night. And hell, if he's never seen the city, they really ought to be there long enough to get in just a little bit of sight-seeing, so an overnight makes the most sense. But that means staying with Travis, and while they're friends, they're also exes, and she had a hell of a sinful, sweaty dream about him two nights ago that makes her think maybe bed-sharing isn't the best plan for them right now. (Two beds, she thinks. She'll insist on a room with two beds.)

But God, she wants to just throw responsibility to the wind and do it. A vacation sounds like just what she needs right now, and it's been ages – years – since she's had a road trip. And she has all these memories of things like this, from when they were dating, and married. Haunted Savannah tours, and Gettysburg, a haunted New Orleans tour for their first anniversary. He loved this stuff. _They'd_ loved this stuff, once. Plus, (and she knows he thinks she's forgotten, but she hasn't) his birthday is next Tuesday. It'd be the perfect thing. The _perfect_ thing.

So she thinks screw it, and picks up the phone, punches in three numbers and waits for Sheldon to pick up. "Yes?"

"Can you take the Haywoods on Saturday? I know we said they should see me, and then you, but I'm thinking maybe we should switch it."

"Okay," he tells her slowly, and she can hear pages rustle and wonders who still uses a paper datebook, anyway, when they could just have it all on their handheld. "I suppose I could do that. Why'd you change your mind?"

"Well, y'know, I just figured..." She can't think of an excuse that isn't just flimsy as hell, so she decides to just out with the truth. "I'm blowin' off work on Saturday, and goin' to San Francisco for the weekend."

He's quiet for a second, then says, "I'm coming to your office." The line goes dead, and not a minute later, there he is, walking into her office with a confused frown on his face.

"You want me to take your patient so you can go to San Francisco for the weekend?"

"Yes. And not take, consult. Which you were gonna do anyway."

"Well, yes, but-"

"I need a vacation, Sheldon. I haven't had one in ages, and with all this crap going on with Cooper... I just need to get out of town for a while. See some new scenery." It's not a lie – she really is itching to spend a few days in a place where she doesn't have to look at the couch she and Cooper almost had sex on, or sleep in the bed where they _did_ have sex. She's grateful to Violet for opening up to her home to her, but it's certainly not a place without memories (both good and bad), and some days she just wishes she could renovate the whole damned place until it's unrecognizable, and she's wiped out every memory with paint and plaster and slate tile and upholstery. Since that'd be rude, she figures a vacation to clear her head is the next best thing.

"Well, I'm not going to argue with you needing a vacation, but shouldn't it maybe wait until you don't have other obligations? Or is there something specific about this weekend that you want to run from?"

"I'm not running," she insists, and she's certain she's telling the truth. "I swear it."

"You're just taking off on a moment's notice, canceling appointments, blowing off your commitments to-"

"I'm not running. I'm..." She rolls her eyes, blows out a breath, and shows her cards. "Travis' birthday is next week, I want to surprise him with an Alcatraz tour."

"Travis? Travis, your ex?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He smirks, knowingly, and she furrows her brow. Why the hell's he lookin' at her like that? "You and Travis want a weekend away. That's a whole different story."

Oh. _That's_ why. "No," she clarifies. "We do not want 'a weekend away.' It's not that kind of thing."

"You're working things out."

"We're not back together."

"But you're working things out," he repeats. "I wondered if maybe something was going on there. There's been something about you lately..."

"Somethin' like what?" she asks, defensively.

"Well, for one thing, you're spending less time looking at Cooper when his back is turned."

Charlotte straightens in her seat, and scowls. "I do not look at Cooper when – and anyway, Travis and I are not involved. Not like that. We're just friends. But he got this idea, and I told him no, that I couldn't make the time this weekend, but.... I want to. I wanna get outta here for a few days, spend some time doing something fun with a friend. Is that so wrong?"

"No." Sheldon shakes his head, but he still has that stupid smile on his face. "It's not wrong. And if you want to swap appointments so that you can spend some time with your ex, I will clear my schedule for the Haywoods."

"Thank you," she tells him, and then, "And shut up. I'm not 'spending time with my ex.' God, you say it like we're gonna go shack up together and screw all weekend. Which we're not – we aren't sleeping together anymore. That's all years behind us. We're just friends now."

Her intercom beeps, and Stacy sounds thoroughly confused when she asks: "Dr. King, is Dr. Wallace in with you?"

"Yeah." "Yes." They answer at the same time. Sheldon steps closer, so he's in range of the speakerphone.

"Your 4:15 is here, Dr. Wallace."

"Go ahead and send her back, Stacy. I'll be right there."

There's a short beep as the line disconnects, and then he's telling her, "We'll talk about you and Travis later."

"Oh, no we won't."

"Oh, yes," he says, and she kinda wants to smack that smile right off of him. "We will. Call the Haywoods and let them know about the change," he tells her over his shoulder, and then he's headed out of the office.

Charlotte reaches for the phone, and as she dials, she thinks she was right in the beginning: this is definitely crazy.


	16. Chapter 16

The last thing Charlotte expects to see when she walks into her office at Oceanside on Wednesday afternoon is a gigantic shipping box. Taller than it is wide, and slim – she was married to a musician long enough to recognize a guitar box when she sees one. She thinks for a second that Travis went crazy and bought her a guitar, but then she thinks a guy like him would have the good sense to test one out in a store here, and deliver it by hand – if there's one thing she knows about Travis, it's that he lives to see her react. Besides, the label is hand-written. She steps up to take a closer look at it, and her stomach twists a little at the return address: Todd Evans. She has a damned good idea what's in that box, and she's torn between wanting to tear the packaging open right now and feel it in her hands again, and a slow curl of anxiety in her belly that she can't quite explain away.

Regardless, she knows that opening that box is something best done in private, so she tucks it away behind her desk, as out of sight as she can manage, and sets about her work for the afternoon. It's not until the very end of the day, when her patients have all been seen, and her emails have all been answered, her schedule reviewed and her coworkers mostly cleared out, that she finally slides the box over by the sofa and uses the scissors from her desk to slice gingerly through the packing tape. She opens the end, pulls out wads of crumpled newspaper until she sees the rounded bottom of a scuffed hard case and eases it out gingerly. She balances the case on the table, runs her palm across the surface, feels its familiar texture, traces fingertips along the gold lettering on the body - "Epiphone" - then up along the neck where Travis had carefully written her name – Lola Evans – years ago.

Her fingers are just a little shaky as she flips open the clasps, then lifts the case open. Her breath catches unexpectedly at the sight – her old Epiphone Hummingbird, a birthday present from Travis a few years before they split. For years, she'd been playing a hand-me-down Fender she'd inherited from Jen before college, and he'd wanted her to have something special, something hers. He told her he'd chosen the Hummingbird because it seemed pretty and feminine, what with it's ornate pick guard etched with flowers and a hummingbird, and the cherry sunburst finish. (Jen had called it sassy.) He'd said he wanted to get her the Gibson, but figured she'd skin his hide if he bought a $3000 guitar for a hobby musician – she'd told him he was damned right about that, and that the Epiphone would more than do. And it sure was a hell of a beautiful instrument. She'd loved this damned guitar. With the way her eyes seem to be misting up, apparently she still loves it.

There's an envelope right on top, and she lifts it, slides her finger under the flap to open it, and pulls the card out from inside. The card's nothing special – some generic thing meant to be funny, with little old ladies on a beach snarking about always being pals. It's a bit girly for Todd, seems more like something Jen would send. She wonders if maybe he's had the card since before the break-up a few years ago, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that when she flips the card open, she comes face-to-face with a picture of Dasher, parked on his butt with his tongue lolling out of his grin, a pair of sunglasses perched on his snout and a hand-written sign in front of him, scrawled with "HELLO MAMA" in black marker. She chokes a laugh, blinks against tears, and shakes her head. Only Todd. She presses the photo to her chest for a second, then sighs and sets it aside, grinning.

Inside the card, he's scrawled a quick note – "A little bird told me you needed this. Dasher misses you. I do too. Enjoy the hummer, sis. – Todd." She rolls her eyes – she'd almost forgotten the boys calling her Hummingbird that. He's written his phone number and email at the bottom, and she makes a mental note to call him later tonight, and thank him.

And then she can't wait any longer, and she lifts the instrument carefully out of its case, gingerly easing away the paper he's slipped between the strings and the fretboard for shipping. The strings are loosened, and she takes a chance, reaches over and flips open the storage compartment. Sure enough, there's a slim electric tuner tucked inside, along with a few picks, and a capo. She nabs the tuner, and sets about adjusting the tuning keys. It doesn't take her too long to bring the guitar back in tune, and then she lets herself experiment, testing out chords, strumming, finger picking just a little and remembering the feel of this in her hands. After a few minutes, she starts into a song, something of Travis' that she'd learned to play years ago. Simple, and romantic – he'd written it for her when they were dating.

She's lost in her own little nostalgic world, so she nearly jumps out of her skin when Cooper makes his presence known at the door: "Since when do you play guitar?"

She exhales hard, regains her composure, and straightens her spine a bit. "Since college."

"Since college," he repeats, and she nods, drags her thumb lazily over the strings again, letting an F chord ring out softly. "I have a guitar," Cooper points out.

"I know."

"You never so much as looked at it when we were living together."

She hadn't been able to. It reminded her too much of what she'd had before him, and she'd wanted to focus on what they had now. She'd wanted to forget about the pain, and sink into the pleasure he was offering. '_Was' being the operative word_, she thinks a tad bitterly. She looks up at him, and she's torn between wanting to slug him and kiss him (par for the course lately), but instead she just says, "I don't play anymore."

"Sure looks like you play."

She feels her irritation swell slightly, and presses her lips together, takes a slow breath. "I'm tryin' to get back into it. Thought it might be good for me."

"What, a little self-improvement project?" Charlotte rolls her eyes, and doesn't bother to dignify him with a response. One thing you can trust Cooper for, though, is that he won't just shut up when he ought to, so a moment later, he's adding, "Guess your loverboy is rubbing off on you, huh?"

"He's not my loverboy," Charlotte answers, sighing slightly. Why does everyone think she and Travis are sleeping together?

"Why not? Sheldon having trouble keeping up with you?"

She blinks, and then remembers that she'd been trying to keep up appearances with Sheldon in front of Cooper. Shit. She's had Travis on the brain so much, she kind of forgot. Figuring she's already stepped in it, she decides to cop to the truth – or something resembling it – about her and Sheldon. "He keeps up just fine. More than. But we decided we were probably better off as friends." After a second she adds, "Not that it's any of your business."

"If I have to watch you two mack on each other in the kitchen, it's my business."

"We have _never_ 'macked on each other' in the kitchen, Cooper. Though considering the amount of hanky panky that goes on in this place, I don't think anyone could've argued if we had."

"I'm pretty sure I've seen enough closed-door 'consults' between the two of you to say you shouldn't be throwing stones about office sex."

"Neither should you," she points out. "Time was, it was you and me having all those closed-door consults."

"Yeah, well. That's over."

"Oh, believe me, I know," she mutters, turning her attention back to her guitar and fingering her way through the opening of another song. "You actually want something, or did you just come in here to see if you could find some way to knock me down a peg before you left for the day?"

"I just wanted to know where the music was coming from," he says, and he's starting to get that self-righteous tone that makes her want to slap him silly. More than anything, she just wishes he'd leave her alone. Stop rubbing salt in her wounds just by being here. That, or apologize. Tell her he was wrong, and he didn't mean any of it, and take it all back. She can be big and forgive; she's gotten good at that lately. But she knows better than to think Cooper will apologize to her.

"Well, now you know," she tells him. Glancing back up just long enough to say, "Get out."

Cooper makes a face, holds up his hands, tells her, "Fine," and backs out. Charlotte adjusts her guitar, focuses on it, and plays, and plays, and plays, until her fingertips are aching and red, and her heart feels a little less raw.


	17. Chapter 17

What the hell kind of decent person calls at 5:45 in the morning on a Saturday? Whoever it is, they're about five seconds from being deader than dirt. Travis fumbles for the cell phone that's been ringing nonstop long enough to wake him after only two hours of sleep, and squints at the name: Lola. She knows better than to wake a working musician this early on a weekend, so he thinks something must be wrong, but when he presses the talk button and mumbles a hello, she sounds right as rain and cheerful as a daisy when she says, "Rise and shine, lazybones. And come let me in."

"Let you... what?" He rubs his fist over his eyes, tries valiantly to stay awake.

"I'm downstairs," she says again, and she's way too chipper for this time of day. She's always been more of an early riser, but never this enthusiastic about it. "Come let me in."

Figuring he's either dreaming, insane, or both – but knowing better than to turn Charlotte down if she is, in fact, here – he slurs an okay and hangs up on her, then stumbles out of bed and down the hall, bleary-eyed and bracing himself against the walls of the stairwell as he makes his way to the door. He opens it, and sure enough, there she is, holding two gigantic cups of coffee, and positively glowing in the dim light of dawn.

Travis blinks. Hard. He's leaning toward dream at this point. "What're you doin' here, Lola?"

She pushes past him and heads up the stairs, and Travis follows dutifully a moment later. She's got no time for stragglers, he knows – ever. "I am your wakeup call – and by the way, I've been standing out there for fifteen minutes, and it's not exactly warm this time of day. I was this close to freezin' off my tail feathers."

"Lola, I love you, but it's quarter to six in the morning, and I didn't get in until near three. So please, for the love of all that's good and holy, tell me what the hell you've got me awake for?"

They're standing outside the bathroom door, and she smiles, then nudges him toward it. "You've got fifteen minutes to get showered; I'll help myself to your dresser and pick you a change of clothes for tomorrow, and then we need to get on the road."

"On the – have you lost all your marbles? What in Sam hill are you talkin' about?"

"It's a six hour drive to San Francisco. I want to be checked into the hotel by noon, because we need to be at the boat for the Alcatraz tour no later than two, and I figure we'll wanna grab some lunch."

He really only takes in _drive, San Francisco, hotel, _and _Alcatraz, _but it's enough that he's finally able to connect the dots. "Wait – we're goin' to Alcatraz?"

"We are. And since I know you're a bit sleep-deprived, I'll drive the first leg, and you can sleep in the car for a bit."

"We're goin' to Alcatraz... _today_?"

"Yes."

"What happened to work?"

"I rescheduled." Her smile softens, and warms, and he thinks he might be all sorts of in love with her when she tells him, "Happy birthday, Trav."


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:**_ From the shortest chapter to the longest. Welcome to Saturday with Charlotte and Travis. Enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

Over the years, Travis has gotten good at sleeping on the road. He's had everything from proper tour buses to the VW bus he spent the better part of his last summer of college in, to schlepping from gig to gig in a caravan of pick-ups and sedans when the need arose. That said, you'd think he'd manage to sleep more than an hour and a half in Charlotte's car, but no luck. He sacks out almost as soon as they're on the road, head cushioned on the pillow he brought with him, one hand over his face to block the growing daylight. But he's awake again by eight, stretching hugely and almost knocking her in the head in the process.

"Do you mind? I'm drivin' here."

"Sorry," he grunts, settling more fully into his seat again.

"What're you doin' awake, anyway?" she asks, as he reaches for the cup of coffee in the nearest cup-holder. "I thought you'd be out for at least another hour or two." The cup is damned near empty, only a sip left, and a cold one at that. Travis grimaces, then notices that Lola has one finger tapping rapidly on the steering wheel. She's two giant coffees in, he realizes, and probably wired as hell. The way she was buzzing around this morning, he's surprised she hasn't crashed already.

"Don't know. Woke up."

"Well, aren't you a chipper ray of sunshine."

Travis lifts one brow and just looks at her for a second, then says, "Pardon. I'm a little short on sleep. Someone woke me up at five fucking forty-five the morning after a gig."

She doesn't even bother to look sheepish, just shrugs her shoulders and smiles at him. "But I did it for Alcatraz. For your birthday. And let me remind you that you are the guy who once dragged me out of bed after an eighteen hour shift to go on a day trip to Dollywood for _my_ birthday. I told you I'd get you back someday, and how I have. Welcome to your Dollywood."

He chuckles a little, remembering that particular day. It had been long, and exhausting, but they'd had a blast. She wasn't a huge fan of amusement parks, but she loved herself some Dolly, so it had evened out. He still has the picture of her at the Dollywood sign, all young and dark-haired (she'd dyed it brown that summer, thinking a more serious look would give her an edge in her internship – she'd always been trying for ways to get ahead), looking bone-tired despite the massive grin on her face.

"Fine," he concedes. "We're even. Although I don't see why we couldn't have just flown it – isn't it only an hour flight?"

He watches as she falters a little, face falling slightly. "Little longer, yeah. I just figured you'd wanna drive. You always liked a road trip."

"I don't mind a road trip, but I do like my sleep. I'm gettin' old, Lola. Two hours of sleep doesn't do me like it used to."

"Oh." For a second she looks thoroughly disappointed (he thinks of salmon burgers and knows the feeling), but she recovers quickly, that well-honed poker face snapping back into place. "Well, we could always eat in the car, take a nap before the tour. I packed sandwiches, and fruit, and Cokes, and chips, and candy..."

"You did not."

"I did. They're in the cooler behind my seat." He glances back, and sure enough, there's a compact Igloo wedged between the back seat and hers. "It's a six hour drive, Trav, and I don't wanna stop more than we have to."

"Y'know, I can't even pretend to be surprised that you stocked ahead. You always were ridiculous about having all your ducks in a row before you do anything."

"It's not ridiculous to be well-prepared."

He reaches behind her seat, twists just enough to wrench the top of the cooler off, and nabs an apple from the top. "Fine, not ridiculous – anal. You want anything?"

"No, I'm good. And I'm not anal."

"If you say so."

Travis settles back into his seat just in time to catch Charlotte scowling her irritation at him. He bites into his apple, watches the landscape roll by, and thinks that despite the rough start, this is shaping up to be a pretty decent day.

**.::.**

When the caffeine crash finally hit her, Charlotte sacked out in the passenger seat, and for the last forty minutes, Travis has been humming along quietly with his iPod on the stereo, volume way down low, and stealing glances at her. She looks so damned pretty when she sleeps.

She stirs in the passenger seat, groans and squirms, and then blinks her eyes open. She's like a sleepy, sun-drunk kitten and Travis can't help but smile. Her face twists into a frown as she sits up, bringing the seat-back with her, and her voice is scratchy when she announces, "I have to pee. Bad."

She clears her throat, and now it's his turn to grimace. He'd stopped for gas ten minutes ago, and she didn't so much as sigh, so he hadn't had the heart to wake her. Apparently, that was a bad call on his part. "Uh, the last rest stop was about ten miles back."

Her scowl deepens. "How far 'til the next one?"

"Forty-five miles."

"Travis!" She crosses her legs tightly and shifts a little.

"What are you yellin' at me for? I didn't make the roads."

"You should've woken me!"

Yes, he thinks. He should've. But it's probably best to side-step that particular issue, so all he says is: "How was I supposed to know you had to take a leak?"

"We've been in the car for hours. Of course I have to pee."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have had the Big Gulp of coffee when we left."

"It's was five AM – I needed it to stay awake." She glares at him. "And it was not a Big Gulp. It was a venti. Well, two ventis."

"Yeah, that's a Big Gulp," he snorts, shaking his head at her. "I can pull over if you want."

"And exactly what good would that do me?"

Travis shrugs. "Pop a squat on the roadside."

"Excuse me," she drawls, sounding thoroughly affronted, and Travis can't help but smirk. Charlotte and her dainty sense of modesty. He'll never get it. "I am not peeing on the side of the interstate."

"No one'll see you on the other side of the car. Better than pissing your pants, and I don't see much of another option for you right now, unless you can hold it."

"I can hold it," she insists, but she sounds a little more certain than she looks. "Let's just stop talking about it. I'll stop thinking about it, and it'll... go away."

"Okay." He glances at the clock, notes the time, gives her five minutes to break.

She squirms again, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see her legs shift, thighs pressing even tighter together. A minute later, she starts up a quick staccato with her fingertip on the arm rest. Then she shifts again. And then finally, "Travis, I'm not gonna make it another forty miles."

He smirks, checks the clock. Seven minutes. Bladder of steel. "What do you want me to do?"

"Oh, just shut up and pull over!"

He can't help it; he laughs. And then he catches the death glare she's aiming at him and tries to hold it back. "Yes, ma'am."

"Shut up. Just shut up." She's looking more than a little distressed now, squirming anxiously, arms crossed tightly over her her chest, fingers squeezing tight on her biceps. "We don't have toilet paper."

"You packed us enough food to last all weekend; you tellin' me there isn't a napkin anywhere in this car?"

She pops the glove compartment open as he rolls the car to a stop on the shoulder, and fishes out a half-spent travel pack of tissues. "Don't you dare watch me. You keep your eyes on the road."

"I assure you that I have absolutely no desire to watch you relieve yourself."

She's still glaring, looking woefully uncomfortable as she opens the door, then shuts it again almost all the way. He waits, fiddles with the stereo, shifts them from the Stones to the Beatles and turns the volume up a little bit. A few minutes later she opens the door again, cheeks pink, looking mortified. She reaches immediately for her purse, digging into it. "I cannot believe I just did that. Drive."

Travis obeys silently, trying to hold in his chuckle as she pulls out a bottle of hand sanitizer and fills the car with the sharp scent of alcohol and clean. So much for modesty.

**.::.**

The problem with six straight hours in the car is that at some point you're gonna end up stuck in a conversation you'd rather not be having. Like this one.

"I did not call Lacey a whore."

"No, you just said that Dakota's daddy is 'just some guy' because 'you know how Lacey is,' which _implies_ that she got herself pregnant because she can't keep her legs shut."

"Well, before Kota came along, she had a little trouble with that, yeah."

"Okay, see, this is what I mean. You're sexist."

"I'm not sexist."

"You lack a certain amount of respect for a woman's sexual autonomy, Trav. And you always have."

"That's not true – I am a firm believer that a woman can have as much sex as she wants with whoever she wants. It is entirely up to her." He signals, switches lanes, and adds, "As long as she's not planning on having sex with me."

Charlotte's stomach is all twisted in knots, and she hates it. This is a stupid conversation, and she's not sure exactly how they got into it, she just knows that now she'd rather be out. But she can't keep her mouth shut, because with her track record it feels like a bit of a personal battle. Not that she'd ever tell him that. He was the second guy she was ever with – first, if you ask him, because he still insists that 60 seconds of awkward penetration in the back seat of Jared Hopper's car on prom night didn't count as real sex – and now she's been with... well... quite a few more. She doesn't know if he'd take that knowledge particularly well – but thankfully, Travis and sex are two things she doesn't plan on mixing, so she doesn't think she'll ever have to find out.

"You had sex with Lacey," she points out. "You dated her for a year and change, right?"

"Yes, but that was later. She cleaned up her act a bit after Kota."

"Oh, so as long as they go back to being good and pure, and turn their backs on their sexually liberated ways, your respect returns?"

"Hey – that's not fair. And that's not what I said. I respect women."

"As long as they don't sleep around."

"No, even if they sleep around. I still respect 'em, just... y'know... less."

She scoffs, shakes her head, and crosses her arms tightly across her chest. "You are unbelievable, you know that? And judgmental. You're all sorts of judgmental when it comes to women and sex."

"Why? Just because I don't think y'all should be givin' it away to every guy who happens along?"

"No, because you think less of women who do that. You don't have to agree with their behavior, but you shouldn't be losin' respect for 'em over who they choose to screw."

"I told you, as long as they're not tryin' to date me-"

"Well, first off, you said 'have sex with me,' not 'date me,' and it shouldn't matter even if they are tryin' to date you, Travis. You're tellin' me that if you met a perfectly nice girl, who had a whole lotta notches in her headboard, you'd toss her out on her ass for bein' a floozy despite all her charms?"

"No, I didn't say that. I'd just think twice about whether I wanted to be with someone who doesn't value their body very much, that's all."

"Y'know, I treat women all the time who're all sorts of uptight and self-conscious about their sex lives because they've had guys like you tellin' them they shouldn't be enjoying sex like they do-"

"Hey now – I think women should enjoy sex. I think women should _love_ every second of sex – any kind of sex they wanna have -- just within a relationship. Hell, even a casual relationship is fine, just, y'know, stop givin' away the milk for free, is all."

"So are you sayin' that all the sex you've had in your life was within casual or committed relationships?"

He shifts a little, caught, and purses his lips a little before admitting, "No. But I'm a guy."

Charlotte groans out loud, shakes her head, and reaches over to whap him upside his. "I cannot believe you just said that. _That_, Travis, is undeniably sexist. It's _okay_ if you sleep around because you're a guy, but God forbid we womenfolk have the audacity to be free with our sex lives, too. Y'know, you have a lot of good qualities, but there are things about you that make me wanna bash your head against the wall for a while, see if all the stupid will fall out."

"Thanks," he tells her, sarcastically.

"And you've always been this way, too. I remember listenin' to the way you guys would talk about the girls fallin' all over the bands on tour, and you sayin' how glad you were you were married so you had a good excuse not to bother with a bunch of – what'd you used to call 'em? Road skanks?"

He shrugs a shoulder, reaches for his soda and glares at the road ahead while he sips. He's pissed, and that's fine, because she shouldn't be the only one uncomfortable here.

"I used to be almost embarrassed to hear you talk about women that way."

"Well, then why'd you bother marryin' me if I was such a sexist, offensive jerk, Lola?"

"Because most of the time you're fine and dandy; a respectful Southern gentleman, who treats women right. You're all into chivalry, but you know when to let a woman be independent and stand on her own. You just have these moments where I swear you're stuck on stupid. Like you regress to some puritanical, hypocritical view of things that springs up from God only knows where. I married you anyway, because those moments are few and far between, but every time they come up, I just wanna hold my hands over my ears until you get it outta your system and become a decent guy again."

"Okay, can we change the subject? Because I'm not really too keen on being stuck in the car for another hour and a half of the what's-wrong-with-Travis show."

"Fine."

"Fine."

She reaches into the back for a soda, cracks it open, and takes a big gulp to push down the sick feeling of dread in her belly, like she's lying through her teeth and barely getting away with it. God, if he only knew about all the guys she's been with. She wonders what he'd think of her. How low his opinion would go. Or would it throw his whole view into a tailspin – teach him a thing or two about getting to know a woman before judging her on her sex life. She doesn't know, and she's not sure she wants to, so she just sips and broods and watches the onion fields roll by outside her window.

**.::.**

They switch to the radio about an hour later, and the first thing that comes over the airwaves is the poppy notes of a Miley Cyrus song. Charlotte's embarrassed to think that she even recognizes that. If anyone ever asked, she'd blame living in LA and being unable to avoid it all, but she knows that's a bit of a lie. A second later, Travis surprises her by turning just in time to sing along with the "whoa" in the first verse. Charlotte guffaws, watching as he bobs his head comically to the music.

"Oh, tell me you do not know this song."

"Of course I know this song," he laughs, then starts singing along. "_This is all so crazy, everybody seems so famous_."

Charlotte is laughing again, she can't help it. "No. I'm sorry. No. How do _you_ know 'Party in the U.S.A'?"

"Dakota loves Miley Cyrus," he confesses. "I have to listen to this damned song every time I have her in the car."

"I can't even... I don't even know what to do with this information," she teases, and he starts in on the chorus.

_Nodding my head like yeah, movin' my hips like yeah. …._

She can't help it, she sings the last line with him: "_Yeeeaaaah, it's a party in the USA."_

"Oh, wait, wait-" He shakes his head at her. "How do _you_ know this song, Miss. I-Can't-Believe-You-Know-Miley-Cyrus?"

Charlotte feels her cheeks heat a little bit and has the decency to look a little embarrassed when she admits, "It's catchy. I kept hearing it on the radio and then I couldn't get it out of my head. And it may or may not be on my workout playlist."

"Hypocrite." Travis just laughs at her, keeps nodding and singing along like an idiot, and she can't help it, she joins in again, laughing the whole time. The whole thing is so bizarre that she wonders if maybe she's fallen into some kind of alternate universe, or really, truly, gone 'round the bend.

A second later, she feels the car lurch toward the center line, then back again, in time with the music and she slaps her hand to the arm-rest to brace herself. "Travis!" she scolds. "Don't you dare!" He does it again, grinning at her like a kid just waitin' for a whoopin'. "I mean it, Trav! You're on the interstate, you can't weave to the damned music! These aren't the back roads of Georgia."

He chuckles, settles back into his seat a little and sighs. "Fine, fine. Spoilsport."

Charlotte tries to keep glaring at him, but she thinks it maybe loses its effect, what with the smile on her face and all.

**.::.**

They hit San Francisco a little after noon. It'll be tight making it to the ferry if they stop for a real lunch, so they agree to scarf down the last two sandwiches from the cooler on the way to the boat.

Charlotte gives her name to the front desk and hands over her credit card, while Travis juggles both their duffles on one shoulder, and his guitar case on the other.

"What do I owe ya?" he asks, leaning against the counter next to her while the clerk checks them in.

"Nothing," she tells him, offering up a smile. "It's on me."

"No. I'm payin' for my room, Lola; you don't have to do that."

"Room 309," the woman behind the counter tells them, handing over a pair of key cards and a slip for Charlotte to sign.

"Thank you." Charlotte turns her attention to Travis. "It's just the one room; I've got it."

His brows raise a little, a slow smile spreading across his face, and it occurs to her that he's thinking things he probably shouldn't. "One room, huh?"

"Keep it in your pants, Evans. One room, two beds, no hanky panky."

He pouts sweetly, reaches up to play with the ends of her hair. "None at all?"

"No," she tells him firmly. "None at all."

"Well, that's a damned shame."

She ignores him, hands the receipt back, then heads toward the elevators. Travis leans against the elevator wall, looking like he's in dire need of some shut-eye, and sure enough, when they walk into their hotel room, he drops his duffel, then flops face-first onto the nearest bed.

"Ten minutes," he murmurs, voice muffled slightly by the hotel comforter. "I just need ten minutes."

Charlotte snorts a little laugh, and nudges his foot with her knee as she walks by. "You can have fifteen. Why don't you crawl on up toward that pillow, so you don't end up with a quilt imprint on your face all afternoon."

He grunts, noncommittal, but a moment later he moves, drags himself up to the pillow and flops down again.

Charlotte toes off her shoes, sets the alarm on her phone for fifteen minutes exactly, and stretches out along her own bed. They're both out in seconds.

**.::.**

"I'm payin' for the ferry."

"Travis," Charlotte sighs, shaking her head. "No. This is your birthday weekend, everything's on me."

"You're already payin' for the tour, the hotel, the gas. I am payin' the ferry. Don't argue."

She's tempted to call him sexist again, but it wouldn't really be fair – she _has_ paid for most everything today, and while Travis won't complain about being treated now and then, she knows he's got enough Southern manners in him to insist on throwing in for at least a few things along the way. If she's gotta cave on the ferry ride to let him feel like he's not taking advantage, so be it. "Fine. But I'm buyin' dinner – don't argue."

He shakes his head at her, chuckles a little, and says, "We'll see."

"I am."

"Uh huh."

"Travis."

"Hush, I need to pay." They've reached the front of the line, and before she can get after him for hushing her like a child, he's talking to the ticket taker, ordering their two tickets and pulling his wallet from his pocket. He flips it open, pulls out his credit card and passes it through the window. She glances down at his wallet, splayed open on the little kiosk counter, and something catches her eye. Two distinct circles in the worn black leather. One smallish, one a little larger. Finger-sized, she thinks, and her stomach drops into her shoes at the thought of just what they might be.

She reaches over, passes her fingertips across them and feels the hardness of metal rings underneath. Travis notices, and tugs the wallet away, tucks his card back into its slot and snaps the leather shut, pocketing it again.

"Are those our-"

"Yep," he cuts her off, pressing their tickets into her hand and slinging an arm around her shoulder to lead her toward the boat. "Let's go – don't wanna be late."

He's avoiding, she realizes, and it's unlike him, but she's a little too stunned to press him about it any more. She'd never thought about what he did with their rings when she left, but the last thing she'd imagined was that he'd have kept them. On his person. All the time. Charlotte swallows hard against a knot of jumbled emotion in her throat and tries to focus on what he's telling her, something about where they should stand on the boat, something about not getting soaked. It's no use; all she can see is the imprint of rings.

**.::.**

Charlotte's been quiet ever since they got on the ferry, and he's not gonna pretend that he doesn't know why. He'd forgotten about the rings in his wallet before – so used to seeing them there after six years that he didn't think to hide them from her before she reached for them. Truth be told, he's not sure why he had the urge to hide them from her even then; he's not ashamed of them. Not ashamed of the fact that he carries them. Knee-jerk reaction, he guesses.

And now she's gone mute. He figures he'll give her some time to process on the ferry ride over; it gives him some time to look at her. And she sure is stunning today.

Nothing out of the ordinary, just jeans and a t-shirt, jacket zipped up tight to keep the ocean breeze from freezing her. She's pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and a few strands have blown loose, whipping around her face. Big, dark, Los Angeles-style sunglasses are shielding her eyes from him, and her mouth is drawn into something between a scowl and a pout. It's the same look she always had when she was puzzling over some particularly difficult problem in med school, and he remembers teasing her that if she didn't finish up with her studies soon, her face would be stuck like that. He wonders what exactly about them she's trying to puzzle out right now, but figures asking her won't do any good.

So he just watches some more, memorizes the slope of her nose for the thousandth time, the curve of her chin, the angle of her jaw. There's a smudge of sunscreen on her forehead, and he can't help himself. He reaches out, rubs his thumb against her brow and she jumps like a jackrabbit.

"You're not blended," he tells her, and she relaxes again, takes a deep breath and looks back out over the ocean.

Travis rubs the white smudge in until it's gone, then spends another minute rubbing her temple in slow circles for good measure.

**.::.**

By the time they're walking into Alcatraz, Travis figures it's time she gets over this little funk. So he stands a little too close and whispers into her ear, "Feelin' spooky yet?"

She tips her sunglasses up and makes a face at him, then takes them off completely and goes to stash them in her purse. "Little bit. Knowing how haunted this place is doesn't exactly make me want to go in."

"Oh, come on, we love this stuff."

"You love this stuff," she reminds him. "I like it a little more than I should, until I get home at night and see shadows in every corner and jump every time I walk by the a/c vents."

"Well, I'll keep you safe tonight," he promises, settling his hands on her shoulders and giving them a squeeze. "Seeing as we're sharing a room and all."

The whole one-hotel-room thing had been an interesting development, and he's not quite sure what to make of it. He doesn't know if he should take her at her word, and keep his hands to himself, or try his luck and see if he can't talk her into a roll in the sheets. She's all mixed signals lately, telling him she wants his friendship, but then acting like maybe there's more there. He doesn't know whether to listen to what she says or what she does.

Right now, both are in sync, though, because she's making that face at him and telling him how one room was more economical and besides, they're just friends anyway. Right. Together for ten years, but just friends.

He decides to let it pass, drapes his arm across her shoulder again and leads them to where their tour guide is just beginning to tell them about when Alcatraz was built. "Come on, scaredy cat. Let's go get spooked."

**.::.**

"There are 336 cells in blocks B and C, which housed the majority of Alcatraz inmates. Each cell is 5 feet by 9 feet, and as you can see, they came equipped with a cot, a small sink, and a toilet. Right now, we're standing in block C, also known as 'The Plaza'..."

Travis leans over and nudges Charlotte with his shoulder, distracting her from the guide's speech.

She turns and looks at him, quirks one brow. "Can I help you?" she asks quietly. He's got that look about him, like he's feeling punchy and impish and about to cause a ruckus at any minute. She learned a long time ago not to trust that look, and finds herself wondering if he's gonna pester her the whole tour.

"I was just noticing that lovely commode," he tells her, and he's got that shit-eater grin on his face now. Charlotte raises both her brows.

"Steel might be a little cold on your tush, but you decorate however you see fit."

"Nah, I don't want it for myself. I was thinking more for you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, y'know, it might be a long tour – you may wanna take a leak now, so we don't have to pull over halfway-"

"Shut your mouth!" she hisses quietly, feelings her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "I had no choice, and you are _never_ to speak of that again. Certainly not in public."

She adjusts her purse, glares at him, and glances nervously at the rest of their group. They've moved a few feet ahead and safely out of earshot, thankfully. Travis just snickers and strolls on ahead.

**.::.**

"Here we are now, at cell 14D, said to be one of the most haunted cells in Alcatraz prison. It's one of our solitary confinement cells, where prisoners could be kept for up to 19 days with no one for company but themselves – and the ghosts of prisoners past, if you believe the stories. One of the most famous stories of 14D came in the 1940's, when a prisoner in this very cell reportedly screamed all night for help at the hands of a creature with glowing eyes. The guards ignored his pleas, thinking he was trying to bluff his way out of confinement, but when the screaming finally stopped, they found him dead in his cell. Strangled by an unseen force."

Travis feels a shiver chase down his spine and grins. Alcatraz, as it turns out, is haunted as hell. All sorts of stories about botched breakouts and grisly deaths, sudden cold spots and spectral sobbing in the dark of night. It's hair-raising stuff, and he's feeling delightfully creeped. This is maybe the best birthday he's had in years.

He glances over at Lola, who is white-knuckling her purse, shoulders tense, and he can just make out goosebumps on her skin of her forearm. She's freaked too, and probably loving it a little less than he is, but she's always been a good sport about this stuff.

The room is suddenly chilly, like it's dropped about three degrees for no reason, and he feels goosebumps on his own arms now, too.

The idea strikes him suddenly, and he knows it's mean, knows he shouldn't, knows she may kill him on the spot, but he can't help himself. He reaches one hand out, slowly, then once it's safely out of her sightline, he brings it in fast and grabs her bicep hard. Charlotte jumps about a mile and lets out a little shriek, before whirling on him, eyes wide and furious, breath fast and uneven. "You sonofabitch!" she hisses as he hoots a laugh, holding a hand up for the rest of their group, all of whom had turned to look.

"Sorry, sorry," he excuses. "She's fine. Carry on."

"Not cool, man," someone else scolds, and Travis shrugs, then turns his attention to Charlotte as the focus shifts back to their tour guide.

"What the hell was that for?" she whispers fiercely, one hand pressed over her heart like she's trying to still it.

"Couldn't resist." He tries to charm her with a smile, but she's having none of it.

"Well, get ahold of your impulses. That wasn't funny."

"It was a little funny."

"Travis."

"Fine, fine. I'm sorry." She shakes her head, crosses her arms tightly, and moves a little faster to catch up with the group. Travis keeps pace with her.

"I swear to God," she mutters through clenched teeth, "You are gonna pay for that. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, when you're not expecting, I'm gonna get my retribution and you will rue the day-"

"Hush up and listen to the tour," he interrupts in a loud whisper, and she presses her lips together hard, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing bright green. She digs an elbow into his side, hard, and he lets out a rather undignified _oof!_ Charlotte gives him a wide berth for the next fifteen minutes, but it was totally worth it.

**.::.**

They're tucked into a table at the Crab House, making a mess of themselves with plates of Dungeness crab and stuffing themselves so full Charlotte's pretty sure she won't have to eat for a week, when she finally nerves up enough to ask the question that's been bugging her all afternoon. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why did you keep our rings?"

He pauses mid-bite, then finishes chewing and tries for casual but doesn't quite hit it: "What'd you want me to do? Hock 'em?"

"No, I mean – Why'd you keep them on you? All the time."

He takes a deep breath, sits back a little and fiddles absently with a hollowed-out crab leg. "I don't want to forget. What happened with us, what I did... I don't ever want to hurt anyone like that again. I don't ever want to be that guy. I guess I figured if I could see that, every day, remember what I'd had and thrown away, then I'd think twice the next time I was about to do something reckless and hurtful to someone I love."

She nods, slowly, thinking that makes sense. She's not sure how she feels about it – she's not sure how she feels about a lot of things when it comes to Travis, truth be told, and it's maddening as hell. The fact that they're here, sitting outside on a lovely (if a bit chilly) spring night, eating crab and acting like they weren't in a deep freeze of silence for most of the last six years is still a bit jarring when she thinks on it too long. The whole day feels surreal. Like she's gone down the rabbit hole, and tumbled into something that just isn't her life. It's not bad, though. Not at all. Just not... hers.

"I guess that makes sense," she tells him finally, reaching for her wine and taking a deep swallow.

She almost chokes on it when he speaks again. "You can have it back if you want."

Her gut twists and her whole body flashes hot and then cold, and all she can manage is a stuttered, "What?"

Travis shakes his head suddenly, and laughs a little, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "I don't mean like that. I just mean, y'know... your ring is yours. You may have left it behind with your walking papers, but as far as I'm concerned, it still belongs to you. So if you want the ring, you can have it. Hock it, wear it, store it in a keepsake box, whatever. But if you want it. For any reason. Or no reason."

Charlotte's still trying to hear over the heartbeat loud in her ears, and she feels all the breath rush out of her in a whoosh of relief before she says, "No, that's okay. I mean, maybe. No. You can hold to it."

"Alright." He squeezes her hand one more time, then leans back and lets go. "You about done killin' that crab?"

She glances down at her plate, and thinks _yes, absolutely_, she's ready to get out of here. "Yeah, we should head back. I'm dyin' for a shower."

She's dying for twenty minutes to herself.

They bicker over who's paying the check – she wins – and before they know it, they're back at the hotel, Travis plopping down onto his bed again and turning on the TV while Charlotte heads for the bathroom and some much needed solitude.


	19. Chapter 19

Charlotte steps out of the shower to find that her clothes are gone. That sneaky sonofabitch. She shakes her head, wraps the fluffy white towel around her body (thank God for oversize hotel towels) and tucks it tightly above her breasts before stalking out into the bedroom. He's still lounging on his bed, the picture of innocence as he flips channels on the TV.

"Travis."

He looks at her. Smiles. "Yes?"

"Where are my panties?"

His brows pop up and down suggestively. "Does that mean you're naked under that towel?"

Charlotte rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb, mister, you're the only possible culprit."

He just grins at her, so she sighs and pads over to her bed, rifles through the duffel resting on the sheets. Clean jeans for tomorrow, a t-shirt, a button-down sweater, socks, the clothes she wore today. But no underwear. She turns to him, grimaces in disgust. "You even took the dirty ones? You're gross, you know that?"

"Like I've never handled your worn skivvies before," he dismisses, and she rolls her eyes again, moving to the dresser and pulling open the drawers one by one. All empty. Fully irritated now, she stalks over next to the bed to check the nightstand. It's empty too, so she turns to him and holds out her hand.

"Give 'em here. Both pairs."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Travis, enough."

He shrugs, smirks, and she tucks her towel a little more tightly as it begins to slip. "I got nothin'," he tells her, holding up his hands to prove they're empty.

"Where are they? In the bed?" She turns and checks under her pillows, tugs her covers back a foot. Nothing, so she whirls on him again. "Get up."

He snickers and rolls off the opposite side of his bed, and she catches sight of a scrap of sky blue silk peeking out of his back pocket. "You bastard," she groans marching around the end of the bed and reaching for him. She realizes her mistake when he intercepts, grabs her wrist in one hand.

"That's not a very nice thing to call someone, Lola," he teases, and this suddenly feels very dangerous. "Didn't your Momma teach you better?"

Shit. _Shit._She twists her wrist, and his grip slips a little, so she tries to take advantage and reach around him with her free hand. He grabs that one, too, and before she knows it, she's got her back to the wall, both wrists pinned against it near her head, the wallpaper cool against the suddenly-hot skin of her back arms and shoulders. The movement loosens the tuck of her towel, and she feels is start to slip. "Towel! Travis! Towel!"

She's not sure how she expected him to help her, but she's pretty sure she wasn't expecting him to press his body flush against hers, not so tight as to feel threatening, but snug enough that she knows that towel certainly isn't going anywhere.

"Got it," he tells her, and he's still got that damnable smirk on his face. She can feel her pulse racing under his hands, and she wishes it was because she felt violated or troubled or anything other than the ripple of nervous excitement that's running through her. Her mouth feels dry all of a sudden, and she opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, he murmurs, "You look good in a towel, Lola." His gaze flicks down between them, to where the towel has begun to slide down her breast, leaving her just this side of decent. "Real good."

"Travis..." she manages, and when he looks back up to her face, their eyes lock and she feels a snap of something fire through her. He's going to kiss her. She knows it. And she's pretty damned sure she's not putting up a fight. Sure enough, she feels her chin lift, her lips part, and then she remembers they're not supposed to be doing this. She's not supposed to be getting involved with Travis (she can't remember exactly _why_ just now, but she knows it was very important). She licks her lips, tilts her head back to level and sucks in a breath, intent on telling him to stop.

Before she can get the words out, his mouth is on hers, warm and eager, and she feels his chest expand and press into hers as he inhales. This is no friendly peck like in the kitchen, although it's pretty tame at the moment. Still, she feels herself relax into the wall, hears a rather undignified moan escape, and then she's kissing him back. Just lips, no tongue, another kiss, a third, and then he sucks a little at her lower lip and her mouth drops open for him. She feels his warm palms slide from her wrists to her elbows, then he lets her arms go to drop his hands at her waist. Terrycloth slides under his palms as he grips her hips, and she's wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing against him, and God, it's good.

Her body's going into overdrive already, and she swears she can feels every stitch of the terrycloth as it shifts slightly against her skin. He moves his kisses from her mouth, over her jaw, sucks his way down over her racing pulse, and Charlotte gasps and blinks her eyes open. There's a mirror on the wall behind them, just to the side, and she catches sight of them, only half in the frame, and watches herself bite her lip. Then she spies the shock of blue lingerie in his pocket, and remembers how they got here, and where they are, and why they shouldn't be doing this.

"Stop," she gasps, groaning and shutting her eyes again when one of his palms slides up to cup her breast through the towel. It feels like it's been ages since she's been touched by anyone – and a lifetime since she's been touched by him. She knows if she doesn't put a halt to this _right now_, she won't have the willpower to stop it at all, so she protests again. "Stop, stop, stop," she breathes, and God, she barely sounds convincing to _herself_, but he's nothing if not a gentleman, so he pulls back just enough for her to see his face when she opens her eyes again.

His mouth is pink, eyes a little cloudy, and his voice is low and rough when he asks her, "What?"

"We, um-" She clears her throat, tries to find her voice, tries to get her raging hormones under control. "We can't do this."

"Why not?" he asks, dropping a soft, lingering kiss on her mouth. Her toes curl against the carpet, and she's having trouble thinking up an answer to his question, to be totally honest. But then she remembers, again.

"We're not – we're just friends. We're supposed to be just friends." It's probably not very convincing with her hands bunched in his shirt, she thinks, so she makes a point to release the fabric, worming one arm between them to tug her towel up a little higher. Her other hand falls on his chest, pushes against him slightly.

"We're not-"

"Travis, please. I need us to just be friends."

He licks his lips and exhales, then nods a moment later, but if the scowl on his face is any indication, he's not particularly happy about it. "Okay. Alright." He leans back a little, until their bodies aren't touching anymore, and Charlotte suddenly feels chilly without the warmth of him all up against her. "Sorry."

Charlotte tucks her towel more tightly, and swallows hard. "I think maybe we should get separate rooms."

Travis shakes his head, cups his palms gently over her shoulders, then pulls them back as if he's thought better of it and tucks them firmly into his pockets. "I'll behave myself. I promise."

"Not just you I'm worried about, Trav," she tells him, mouth twisting into something between a smile and a grimace. Damnit, she let this get messed up. "I'll call down – just as soon as you give me my underwear."

He laughs a little, but it's nervous, forced, and God, they're both just all out of sorts now. He reaches back, pulls the clean, blue silk from his pocket and hands it to her, fishes the worn red ones from his other pocket and tosses them toward the beds. "Just tryin' to get a rise of ya," he excuses, stepping back another foot.

"Well," she scoffs, though it's not without a hint of humor. She tightens the towel over herself again, unnecessarily. "Looks like it worked."

Five minutes later, she's in her pajamas, and he's on his way to room 418, one floor up and down the far hallway. In retrospect, she's pretty sure she should've seen this coming, and she's left wondering if there's some traitorous part of her that's wanted it all along. Her skin is still buzzing, her brain busy with thoughts, and she thinks this is probably going to be a long, long night.


	20. Chapter 20

Travis has been in his own room for about three quarters of an hour when there's a knock at the door. He's not expecting anyone – certainly not expecting her – so it takes him a little off-guard when he opens the door to find Charlotte standing on the other side, clutching his guitar.

"You, uh – You left this in our – my – room," she tells him, and he can tell just by looking at her that something's a bit off. She's dimmer around the edges, lost a bit of her spunk. Even when he was picking at her earlier, she'd still looked brighter than she had since he's been seeing her again, but she's lost that now. Maybe kissing her had been a bad idea after all (not that he regrets it – he's been aching to kiss again her for six years now).

He scratches the back of his head, tells her, "Thanks. You didn't have to come up here; I'd've run down and gotten it if you'd called."

Charlotte shrugs a little, nearly fidgets for a second, then confesses, "I'm bored. And a little lonely." She glances down, then back up at him, and he's not sure how to read her right now, which is odd for him. Usually he knows her well enough to peg her feelings on sight. "Thought maybe you wouldn't mind a little... company?"

"Okay," he drawls, stepping back to give her room to walk through the door. She does, then hesitates just inside, glancing at the bed, the dresser, the chair by the desk, like she's not sure where she wants to settle. He's not sure where to encourage her (knows exactly where he _wants_ her, but that didn't go so well earlier), so he figures they're better off just layin' it out on the table: "I'm just gonna ask now, so we're clear. Did you come back up here because you want to keep up what we were-"

"No." She's all business; her chief-of-staff voice, he bets. She shakes her head and says again, "No, I don't think that's a good idea. The empty hotel room just seemed... y'know... empty." She takes a deep breath, deflates when it blows out of her, and then shakes her head. He knows that tell – she's frustrated with herself. "And I'm startin' to feel like a sadsack, so I thought a distraction might do me good."

"Well, we can't have you feelin' blue, now can we?" Travis cups her arms, guides her toward the bed (it's big enough for both of them, and she's made it pretty clear there's no sex on the docket – he'll just have to keep his distance.). "Sit down."

"No sex, Trav."

"I heard you the first time, Lola. Just sit. We'll watch a movie or somethin'. Talk. Whatever."

"I'm not feelin' all that chatty."

"Alright, then. We'll just... sit."

She nods, and perches herself hesitantly on the end of the bed, sliding the guitar across the middle of it, like she figures if it bisects the bed, they couldn't possibly find another way to end up sprawled over it. He hates seein' her like this, stuck in a blue mood. Hates even more to think he might be the cause of it. He's done her enough pain in the past, he'd hate to heap on more now just because he can't keep his hormones in check.

So he sits at the head of the bed, props his back against the headboard and stretches his legs out. Far enough to be safe, casual enough to hopefully crush this barrel of unease they've found themselves in.

For a minute they just sit there, nothin' to say. Travis looks at her, she looks away and studies the bedding. He looks at his fingernails, rubs his thumb across a hangnail that's been smarting all damned day. It pulls a little further and he winces, curses, then pops it in his mouth and sucks at it to dull the pain. He tastes a hint of metal, and notices that she's watching. She opens her mouth like she's about to say something – and he can just hear her telling him that if he'd just leave it the hell alone this wouldn't happen – but then she snaps it back shut wordlessly.

Well, this is awkward.

Eventually, she flips open the guitar case, reaching in and pulling out his guitar. She pauses, asks him, "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Nothin' I'd rather see than you with a guitar again."

She smiles then, finally, an honest-to-goodness genuine smile. Then she pulls her legs up until she's sitting cross-legged, and hugs the guitar to her front like a shield. She strums it, frowns a little – it's a hair out of tune, but she's clearly noticed, because she's adjusting the tuners, strumming again, and then it's just right.

"Thank you, by the way," she tells him, and Travis frowns.

"For what?"

She glances up, green eyes bright, and there's that light he's been hopin' to see in her again. She's not at her full sass, but she's recovering. "My guitar."

Travis grins, and nods. He'd been wondering if that made it here yet, but he hadn't wanted to spoil the surprise by asking. "You're welcome. When'd you get it?"

"Wednesday."

"And you waited until Saturday night to say thank you? Whatever happened to those Southern manners I know you were raised with?"

"I left 'em in Georgia," she teases back, and he watches as she tests out chords, not playing anything in particular, just pluckin' the strings, makin' sound. "I meant to bring it with, but forgot it until I was halfway to your place. Yours is better anyway."

"It better be. It cost about five times as much."

She smirks at him, shakes her head, then starts playing something that actually sounds like a song. "Blackbird," he realizes, after a few notes. He'd taught her that one the summer after her freshman year of college, when she'd been layin' the flirtation on thick, and he'd been trying to resist the urge to give in. She was, after all, his little brother's girlfriend's best friend. She'd been four years his junior and damned near a child back then – at least, that's what he'd told himself when she was sunning herself in the back yard in a teeny red bikini. She's a far cry from that now, grown and tucked into yoga pants and a sweatshirt zipped up tight. She's showing as little skin as she possibly can, and he bets it's intentional, meant to keep him from wanting her, but it's useless. He'd want her in a potato sack.

He closes his eyes to listen as she plays, and the lack of conversation doesn't feel so awkward anymore. Just comfortable, like this is the way things ought to be.

Then she melts into a series of minor chords, one after another, picking her way through a string of blue notes, and he thinks this is maybe one of those times she needs to be pushed to open her mouth whether she wants to or not, so he cracks his eyes open and nudges her knee with his toes.

"That's an awfully melancholy tune you've got goin' there."

She shrugs a little. "I guess."

Travis blows out a little sigh. "C'mon, Lola. I know you're not big on conversation when you feel like this, but you always feel better once you talk it out."

"It's nothin'."

"No, it's not."

"Travis." There's an edge to her voice now; he's irritating her. Fine with him; he'll take irritated over sad any day.

"Is it my doin'?"

"What? No. It's not you. Not really. I just..." She sighs, heavily. "It's not you."

"Okay. I thought maybe after what happened..."

Her lips curve a little, and she shakes her head, keeps up with the depressing music. "No. I'm just kind of a mess right now. All stupid, and broken-hearted, and female, and I hate it. I hate that I _care_ so much, and that I can't just take what I want when I want it without feelin' like... like..."

"Like what?"

"I have a bad track record when it comes to sex and hurt feelings. I feel crappy, fall into bed with someone thinkin' it'll make me feel better, and then it doesn't. And we could – you and I, we could do it – but I'll wake up tomorrow feelin' like crap about myself just like I feel like crap about myself right now, and this whole thing? Us bein' friends? It's good. It's been good. I like it. I don't want to muck it up by screwin' your brains out. I'm not feelin' myself, and you deserve better than that. We've got too much history between us, and I'd hate for us to have sex for the wrong reasons."

Well, that's something. Better than regret, anyway. "I think you're more yourself than you wanna believe," he tells her, then adds, "But I suppose kissing you might've been a bit of a misstep on my part?"

Her smiles spreads slowly, like she's trying to fight it, but her eyes go almost mischievous immediately. "Well, it didn't suck."

Travis can't help laughing out loud at that. It's a hell of an understatement. "No, it did not. That was a hell of a kiss, if I do say so."

"Yeah." She chuckles a little, but then it fades, her whole facade weighing down in slow motion, until she's got those damnable sad eyes again, those pretty lips drawn into a sulk. It makes his heart ache. What good is he if he can't even keep her smiling for more than a minute at a time? Screw it, he decides. They're taking care of this. He's seen enough of her wallowing in dust of this relationship; this isn't her style. She needs to pick herself up and get her sass back, and if he's gotta grab her hand and pull her up to get her started, then so be it.

"Alright, you know what? You've gotta get this guy out of your system."

She snorts a dry laugh. "Easier said than done. I've already tried everything short of quittin' my job and avoidin' him altogether. And the sick thing is, sometimes I don't even really want to get over him. I just want him to want me back. We suck together half the time, but I keep on comin' back for more."

Travis smirks a little, earning himself a scowl from her. "Sorry. You just sound like a sad country song right now."

"Thanks," she mutters. "That's exactly what I want to hear."

"It's true. Can't live with him, can't live without him, goin' round and round in circles, but gosh, I love him so and can't leave."

"Okay, first of all, stop mockin' my pain, and second of all..." She makes a sound of disgust, crosses her arms over the top of the guitar and plops her chin onto it, the picture of self-loathing. "You're right. It's sick. It's awful. All I'd need is a dead dog and a pink slip and I'd be a South-of-Dixie stereotype come to life. It's pathetic."

"Oh, come on now. Don't mock the form," he scolds, though he's certainly made his fair share of comments along the same vein. He may have made his living off country music, but no one can deny it has a tendency toward the melodramatic now and again. "You'd be a good country song. One of those aching, heartbreaking ones that spends weeks at the top of the charts."

"Yeah, I bet." She doesn't mean it. Not at all.

"No, I mean it. Here, I'll prove it. We'll write it out; it'll be cathartic. I will sit here, and listen, and you can tell me all about the Charlotte and Cooper show, and then we'll sit down, and write it into a sad, sappy country song for ya. Top ten material, I guarantee it."

"You're crazy," she tells him, but he can almost see a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Maybe, but it's a step up from sittin' there with your lip stickin' out all night, isn't it?"

He's not sure if she just scoffed or laughed, but she doesn't look too put out, so he doesn't worry himself much over it. "Yeah, I guess." She sits up a little straighter, pulls in a breath and blows it out again, and puts her fingers back on the strings. "You sure you wanna hear about all this?"

"I want you to stop looking like someone kicked your puppy," he tells her, propping a pillow behind his back to get a little more comfortable. "So yeah. Spill."

"Alright. Where do you want me to start?"

"The beginning always works best, in my experience."

She nods slowly, focuses her eyes back on the guitar, and starts: "He was the most mortifying blind date I've ever been on. I walked out after about two minutes."

An hour later, he's heard enough to decide he doesn't much like Cooper Freedman, and that Charlotte's love life of late would make a hell of a song.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note:** _Just a quick note to let y'all know that I have turned on anonymous reviewing, so if there are any folks out there who have been reading and wanting to leave a comment, but don't want to register, you're now free to review! I also want to say thanks to everyone who has been leaving reviews so far -- both those of you who like how things are going and those of you who don't -- I love to hear what people think about the story so far, and answering any questions y'all have (as long as they don't spoil too much for ya!). Also, I'm curious about what you guys think about the update rate -- am I pumping out chapters too fast for you to keep up? Just right? Too slow? (Please don't say too slow! I'd have to quit my job and write fanfic for a living! lol)_

* * *

.

.

"I kissed Travis."

"Y'know, sweetheart, one of these days you're going to have to learn to start a conversation with a hello."

Charlotte sighs, props her feet on Violet's coffee table and plops her head against the back of the sofa. "I'm sorry. Hello, Jennifer, how was your day? Wonderful? Awful? Great, that's nice, now let's talk about me. _I kissed Travis_." Honestly, does Jen not get that this is kind of a big deal? Small romantic crisis going on over here, and her best friend is worried about manners?

Jen snorts a laugh over the line and says, "Well, yeah. You had to know that was comin' eventually."

She frowns. "No. I didn't."

"Well then you are as dumb as you are Southern, sweetie. Of course you kissed him. He's Travis. You're on the rebound, and he's chocolate cake, remember? Sweet, and comforting, and just a little forbidden. Honestly, I'm just surprised it took the two of you this long to get around to it. Now tell me every dirty detail."

"Jen, I didn't call to gossip about it; I called 'cause I don't know what the hell to do about it."

"Well, the first thing you do is tell your best friend _every dirty detail_. Then, and only then, does the advice office open for business."

"You're impossible," she mutters, thinking Jen sounds way too pleased about all this. Charlotte's not pleased – Charlotte's spent the last forty-eight hours since she got back from San Francisco stewing over that kiss. Sure, they acted like everything was fine, like they swept it under the rug and moved on to talk about Cooper and all that, but she's not so sure. Kissing Travis wasn't part of her plan – her plan was to waffle out whether or not to take Sheldon's advice about getting Cooper back, and in the meantime enjoy spending time with a man who knows her, cares about her, and will let her mope a bit. There was no kissing in that plan, and there was certainly no lying awake nights, itching to feel his hands on her again. It was bad enough spending her nights craving Cooper, but now she's gotta find time to want both of these guys she can't have, and frankly, she's exhausted.

"No, that's you, sweetie pie. I'm quite agreeable," Jen replies, pulling Charlotte's thoughts back to the conversation at hand. "Now spill."

Charlotte takes a heavy sigh, then starts in on her tale: "I took him to San Francisco for the weekend, for his birthday. He wanted to do this whole Haunted Alcatraz thing, so I surprised him with it. We drove up instead of flyin', and I didn't want to rush the day, because he's never seen San Francisco, so I got us a hotel room for the night--"

"_A _hotel room?" Jen interrupts. "As in 'one'?"

"Yes, 'a' as in 'one.' Go ahead. Tell me I should've seen it comin'."

"You should've seen it coming. You should have seen it comin' from space, honey. You should've seen it comin' from Jupiter."

"I know, I know. I just wasn't thinkin'. We've been doin' the whole just-friends thing so well the past few weeks, and it's not like we've never spent the night in the same room without sleepin' together. Hell, we were together for a decade, and God knows we didn't screw each other silly every night. I didn't think we'd be all eaten up with sexual tension over one night in separate beds. And we weren't either – until he decided the best way to continue to pester me – like he had been all damned day – was to steal all my clothes while I was in the shower."

Jen laughs out loud at that, and Charlotte feels a bit like the chuckle is at her expense. "That man is slicker'n snot when he wants to be. Guess he knew what he wanted, huh?"

"Huh?"

"You. Naked."

"I wasn't naked – there was no naked. He didn't take the towels."

"Oh, honey, same difference. A towel's a lot easier to get you out of than your actual duds."

"Regardless. He took my clothes, and he hid my skivvies, and in the process of tryin' to get 'em back from him, I somehow ended up pinned against the wall, gettin' my brains kissed out."

"And you didn't hop on him?"

"No, I didn't hop on him, Jen," she mutters, shaking her head and studying the ceiling. She'd make some overly-offended comment about how she's not that easy, but truth be told, she sometimes is. So. That'd be pointless.

"I'm not sure whether I'm proud or disappointed."

"Considering the crap you've been givin' me lately about inappropriate sexual choices, I'm gonna ask you to go with proud."

"Fair enough. Good for you and your restraint."

Charlotte sighs, shuts her eyes. "So what do I do now?"

"Sleep with him."

"Jen!" Her eyes pop back open. "What happened to restraint?"

"Screw restraint. And then screw Travis. You've been in love with him since you were seventeen; just give in already."

"Jen, I can't sleep with Travis."

"Why not?"

"In case you've forgotten, Travis isn't a fan of loose women . And since we split up, I've managed to become the kind of girl he doesn't like takin' to bed – not if it's gonna mean anything anyway, and I'm not sure I can do meaningless sex with Travis. Besides, I'm in love with Cooper."

"Well, there's a difference between loose women and ex-wives, honey, but we'll come back to that later. Right now I've gotta question your logic here: You're in love with Cooper, but you're shackin' up in a hotel overnight with your ex-honey, and makin' out with him wearing nothing but a towel?"

"First, we got separate rooms after the whole kiss incident, and second, yes, I am in love with Cooper and doin' all that. Me bein' in love with Cooper is the whole reason I stopped kissin' Travis and made him get his own room. Which I then found myself in an hour later."

"You made him get his own room, and then you followed him there?"

"Yes."

"And you still didn't sleep with him?"

"No. I moped at him like a kicked puppy, told him the whole saga about me and Cooper – minus a few of the kinky-sex-related details, of course. Didn't figure he'd appreciate that."

"But you figured he'd appreciate hearing all about your ex-honey an hour after you booted him out of your room for puttin' the moves on you?"

Charlotte shifts a little uncomfortably. That might not have been her most selfless move. "He asked."

"He asked about you and Cooper?"

"He asked why I was feelin' like such a sadsack again, and teased me into telling him all about me and Cooper so he can write us into a country song."

"He's writin' you a song? Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

Jen lets out a little laugh, and Charlotte can almost see the way she's probably shaking her head right now. "That man's nuts. And in love with you."

"He is not in love with me."

"Charlotte-"

"He's _not_. We're just friends. He thinks I need to get over Cooper; he's tryin' to cheer me up." It's a little harder to convince herself of that when she thinks about the feel of his mouth on her throat – a little easier when she remembers the way he sat through a whole hour of her pouring her heart out after, letting her take him on the merry-go-round of angst and drama that is her and Cooper.

"Of course he thinks you need to get over Cooper. He's in love with you."

"Jen, we've been apart for six years."

"During which he's seriously dated exactly one person, who left him after a year and a half because she didn't want to waste her time with a guy who's heart just wasn't in it."

"What?" Charlotte sits up a little straighter, her belly getting that sudden-drop feeling, like the first few seconds of a roller coaster free-fall. She'd never thought to ask Travis why Lacey didn't work out, but it hadn't really occurred to her that the reason might be, well, her.

"Look, neither of 'em will ever really admit it, but we all knew. At least, everyone who wasn't wrapped up in their own shit at the time knew. She wasn't you. And he's been lookin' for another you ever since you walked out."

"Hold on, now. If neither of them will ever admit it, and you were busy goin' down the tubes with Todd, then you're just assuming, right?"

Jen goes quiet for a second, and Charlotte wonders if it means there's something she's not telling her, or that Charlotte's hit that one on the nose. When she finally speaks, she gets her answer: "Technically speaking, yes, it's an assumption, but from what I hear it's a pretty widespread assumption, and-"

"Well, the earth being flat was a pretty widespread assumption, too, and look how that turned out."

"This is different-"

"Jen, please," Charlotte finally sighs, and she's a little alarmed by how pleading she sounds, but she's just overwhelmed by the whole prospect of this. This is too much for her already-taxed heart to process right now. "He can't be in love with me. And I can't be in this conversation anymore. I've got too much else going on, I can't deal with that too. Travis is easy. He's supposed to be easy. We make dinner, and watch TV, and go away for the weekend, and it's _easy_. He can't be in love with me; that's not easy. That's messy, and complicated, and he's leaving in a few weeks – it couldn't go anywhere even if he was. We're just friends. We have to be just friends. We can't be in love."

She hears herself, hears the insistence in her own voice, and hears her inner Jen telling her that maybe she's protesting _too_ much, or that denial ain't just a river in Egypt. But the actual Jen seems to be a little more sympathetic today, telling her "Alright, baby. We'll talk about something else then, but don't you act all blindsided when you finally realize I'm right. Any update on your coma momma?"

Charlotte's more relieved than she maybe ought to be by the shift in conversation, but she pours herself into updating Jen on Kayla Lindy, and the hospital, and anything and everything else but Travis.


	22. Chapter 22

Charlotte prides herself on being able to compartmentalize. She knows how to keep her work life at work, and her personal life at home (with the exception of the occasional mid-day office quickie, of course). But this week, she's been having a hell of a time. Her mind keeps wandering, back to her conversation with Jen, back to what happened with Travis, and it's driving her to distraction. She's had to work late every night just to get everything done, and right now she's just thankful that Travis has been in the studio all week, and too busy to bother with her, aside from a few text messages. She needs a bit of a breather before she sees him this weekend (he spied Violet's grill last time he was over, and now he's insisting on teaching her to make a proper steak).

But she doesn't have time to think about him now – it's Thursday afternoon, 3:04PM to be exact, and Charlotte is late for a date. She rounds the corner and there he is: slumped in his chair, staring through the glass at a woman he can't touch, or talk to, to do anything other than watch from afar. There's a part of Charlotte that hates to think she uses this time to gain a little perspective, but sitting with Eddie Lindy always does a pretty good job or reminding her that there are definitely worse things than being torn over exes.

She settles into the chair next to him and hands over a hot paper cup, telling him, as always, "Coffee. Black. Two sugars."

Eddie smiles back, or what passes for a smile from him anyway, and nods his head toward the other drink she's clutching. "Vanilla Ice Blended, with espresso beans, and extra whip."

"It's like dessert and rocket fuel energy all in one," she confirms, sucking up a mouthful through her straw, and adding, "And it beats the hell out of the cafeteria coffee, that's for damned sure."

Another of those almost-smiles from him, and she offers a real, full-on smile in return. Hell, just because she's a mess doesn't mean she can't help someone else feel a little better, right? "I don't know how you drink that crap," he says, before adding, "I don't know how _I_ drink that crap."

"You get used to it after a while."

"Yeah." He nods, slowly. "You do." A heavy sigh and then, "I have to say, hospital coffee isn't something I ever planned on getting used to."

"Can't imagine anybody ever does. But luckily, we've got better coffee right down the street." She lifts her cup pointedly, and he nods.

They sit in silence for a moment, sipping, before Eddie asks, same as always: "How's Kayla?"

"She's good," Charlotte assures. "Doing well. Her vitals are good, no new clots as far as we can tell. No reason to think she's suffering, or in any pain." The babies are healthy, too, but he doesn't like to hear about that. Doesn't like to be reminded anymore than he already is (which is every day, all the time) that his wife is being used as an incubator for someone else's kids, and there's not a damned thing he's allowed to do about it. Charlotte thinks she'd be pissed as hell, too, so she makes a point never to bring it up when they have these little coffee breaks.

Eddie nods a little at the prognosis, then says to her, "You wouldn't tell me even if she was."

"I would," Charlotte corrects him. "I promise. She's your wife; you deserve the truth, even if it gets ugly."

"It's already ugly. All of this is ugly. She should be at peace."

Charlotte happens to agree with him, but as Chief her hands are tied. Nothing she can do about the judgment, nothing she can say that will make him feel any better. So they sit, they sip.

He watches her. Then, "Y'know, I don't know anything about you."

"What?"

"You know all about me, and Kayla, and the kids. I don't know anything about you."

"Well." She shrugs a little at him. "I'm the doctor, you're the patient – or the patient's next of kin, I guess – that's usually how it goes."

"True. But we sit here every other day, and drink coffee, and talk about me, and us, and I'm sick of talking about me. It depresses me. So let's talk about you."

Charlotte smiles, shakes her head a little. "What makes you think that's any less depressing?"

"Try me."

Another sip, another nod, and Charlotte figures _what the hell?_ Maybe a neutral perspective will do her some good right now. "My ex husband is in town."

"Ouch," he winces sympathetically.

"It's not so bad – that part, anyway – him being here – it's not so bad. We had a lot of unfinished stuff that we've managed to sort out, so it's kind of a good thing."

"Okay. So where's the depressing part?"

"I'm in love with someone else – just got dumped, still lickin' my wounds."

"Sorry to hear that," he says, and she thinks he may actually mean it.

"Thanks. So the ex and I were gettin' pretty good at being friends again, which I needed. More than I'd like to admit. But we went on vacation this weekend, and he kissed me. And I let him, before I stopped him. My best friend thinks he's still in love with me, which is not good. And now I don't know what to do about him. Can't be his friend, can't be more. But I don't want to not talk to him again, either. So." She sips, and sighs. "In the grand scheme of things, it seems pretty small, but for me, it's pretty depressing."

"Oh yeah, being loved sure sucks," he tells her, a bit sarcastically but without any malice, and when she looks at him again, he's smiling at her like she's a particularly silly child. Charlotte shifts uncomfortably.

"He's not the one I want to be loved by," she tells him. "Except -" Charlotte catches herself, screws her face into a scowl. She's about to say something she's not sure she wants to admit, but there's something about perfect strangers that she's comfortable with. It's the people who know you that you've gotta worry about.

Eddie beats her to the punch: "Except he kind of is?"

"Well, it's nice. Y'know. Feelin' wanted," she explains. "And there's somethin' there, somethin' more than nothing. But I'm not sure if I feel the way I feel about him because I really feel that way about him, or because my ex-boyfriend doesn't feel that way about _me_, and I want to think that someone does. Which sounds pathetic as hell when I say it out loud."

"It's not pathetic. We all want to be loved."

"There's a difference between being loved and being desperate," she mutters, and she's been feeling pretty desperate lately. Clinging to whatever she can to keep her head above water, to keep her from sinking down into another post-breakup depression it takes her years to get out of. "I was just so caught up in my own little pity party that it never occurred to me Travis might start feelin' that way – or that he might never have stopped."

"How long were you married?"

"Four years. But we were together for ten."

"Who left?"

"Me. He cheated."

"And you have a hard time believing he might not be over you? You're the one he let get away – now he has you back. I can tell you – if Kayla woke up tomorrow, I'd never let her go. If she woke up and didn't remember me, or didn't want anything to do with me, I'd still love her. I'll love her 'til the day I die. You know I love her more now than I ever have before? Now that she's gone. If she woke up, I would do everything I could to make up for every bad thing I ever did. I'd take the trash out every day, forever, without complaining, and I'd watch those stupid Lifetime movies she likes so much, and I'd take her to Paris like she always wanted, no matter how much it cost. If I got a second chance with her, I'd do everything."

It's so damned sweet – and bittersweet – that Charlotte almost wants to cry, but she's not a cryer, so she steels herself, and just tells him, "She's lucky to have you."

"Never discount the love of a husband for his wife. We may not always talk about it, but... it can be stronger than you think."

"I'm not his wife anymore," Charlotte points out, swirling her straw through the whipped cream at the top of her cup.

"You're still you."

"I guess. But I might be fretting over nothing – my best friend could well be wrong. He hasn't said anything about bein' in love with me. He's listened to me whine ad nauseum about my breakup, stopped kissing me as soon as I asked. Never tried again. Could be nothin'."

"Could be."

"But it could be somethin'."

He chuckles a little at her, and she can't help but smile back. She sounds ridiculous. Might as well be able to laugh at herself.

"Can I ask a question?" he says, a moment later.

"Shoot."

"What if it is something? Why's that so bad?"

"He lives in Georgia, most of the time. And I already moved across the country once because of him; I'm not doing it again. And I'm not the woman I was when we were married; we probably wouldn't work long-term now anyway. Plus – in love with someone else, remember?"

He gives her that one, saying, "Okay, so you don't want to be together. Why do you think you can't be friends?"

"Well, if he's in love with me..." She raises her brows, figures she shouldn't have to elaborate much on that one. Friendships with someone who's stupid in love with you rarely end well. And they almost always end, in her experience.

"Why don't you just ask him?"

Charlotte smiles at that – it's so simple, and yet so dumb. "Because then I'd know."

"And you don't want to?"

"Not really. If I knew he was in love with me, then we couldn't be friends."

"And you want to be friends."

"I do." Desperately, she thinks. She desperately wants to be friends with Travis. Wants vacations, and gigs, and dinners, and nights at the piano or in front of the TV. She doesn't want to lose those things, not again.

"And he hasn't pushed you for more, aside from that one kiss that you stopped?"

"No."

"So what's the problem? Be his friend."

"It's not that simple."

"Sure, it is. He's not asking, you're not asking. Keep doing whatever you've been doing and stop worrying so much until he gives you something to really worry about."

It sounds so simple and logical, but when have relationships ever been that? "That's your suggestion? 'Ignore it 'til you can't?'"

"Well, you can sit here and be miserable about it, but that doesn't seem to do anything but make you miserable."

He has a point there, she thinks, quirking one brow in acknowledgement.

"Live your life while you can," he tells her. "Stop being scared of 'maybe,' and save your energy for the things worth being scared for."

He glances toward the window to Kayla's room and Charlotte feels a sharp stab of guilt. Here she is whining about being loved too much, running from second chances, and he's still suck in this hallway for God knows how long, sitting sentry over the love he'll never get to have again. It seems petty, and selfish, and stupid, and maybe he's right. Maybe she should just stop fretting over something that might be nothing, take his advice, and just live a little.

Before she can think of something else to say to him, her pager goes off. She checks it, frowns, and says, "I've gotta run." He just nods, sips his coffee. "But thank you – this helped."

He looks at her then, smiles a little. "Good. You're a good woman, Dr. King. Don't be stupid."

Charlotte laughs before she can help it, shaking her head as she stands. "I'll do my best."

She leaves him sitting there, and thinks maybe, just maybe, she's left some of her emotional junk behind as well. Time to get back into the swing of things.


	23. Chapter 23

"Oh, don't be an idiot!" Charlotte damn near hollers. "You're gonna get yourself killed! He doesn't wanna kiss you, he wants to gut you like a-" Sure enough, the blonde bimbo gets sliced open from stem to stern, and Charlotte winces. "See? There you go. Gutted."

Travis laughs and shakes his head. "God, Lola. Horror movies just aren't the same without your running commentary."

Charlotte's too busy grimacing at the spill of blood and intestines onscreen to pay his comment any mind. "Ugh. Why did I agree to watch this right after dinner?"

"Beats me," he smirks, reaching for his beer and taking a swig.

Charlotte inches a little bit closer to him, until there's just a narrow strip of couch cushion between them, her own beer clutched a bit too tightly in her fingers. He loves the scary stuff, always has, but she's never quite gotten off on being scared like he does. She doesn't hate it, but horror movies and ghost stories make her jumpy. Hell, when she went to refresh their beers five minutes ago, she about jumped out of her skin when the breeze tossed the tree leaves out back. For a split second, she thought it was an intruder lurking out there, waiting to come in and axe murder them both. Thankfully, she came to her senses a moment later, and now she's just glad she didn't actually shout out loud, because Travis would never let her live that one down.

The killer pops out of hiding on the screen, and Charlotte lets out an undignified yelp. Travis hoots his amusement, and she thinks the universe has just proven her point. "Oh, stop it," she hisses. "It startled me."

"You startle easily."

"I do not."

"Uh huh. One word: Alcatraz."

Charlotte presses her lips into a hard line and glares at him. "I'd refrain from bringin' that particular stunt up if I were you."

"Alright, alright. Stop yappin'; he's about to kill her, too."

Charlotte exhales heavily and turns her attention back to the screen, setting her beer aside and crossing her arms tightly, squeezing her fingers against her biceps as the suspense builds and her heart begins to pound again. Travis shifts a little next to her, stretches, and then out of the corner of her eye she sees his arm move. She braces herself for a grab, or a tickle, or something equally obnoxious and startling, but all he does is settle it across her shoulders.

Oh, he did not. He did not just do the stretch-and-reach like some awkward teenager on a first date. She turns to look at him, intent on heckling him for such a pathetic move (with the added bonus of missing more movie carnage), but he's closer than she anticipated and looking straight at her.

He's looking at her face, studying her almost, like he's trying to figure something out. And also like he wants her. A lot. Shit. "Trav..." she warns, but she can't bring herself to look away from those blue, blue eyes. Charlotte's heart is suddenly pounding for an entirely different reason.

She'd managed to convince herself when he came over on Saturday that Jen had been wrong – that Travis wasn't all in love with her again (or that if he was, it wasn't anything to be worried over. Just some residual affection left over from when they were married, and hell, even she had that). The night had gone perfectly – steaks on the grill, and Scrabble, and comfortable teasing as usual. And sure, maybe he stood a little too close to her while they were grilling, or was a little more touchy-feely than she was accustomed to, but that's just Travis. He's just that way. At least, that's what she'd thought until right now, when he's looking through her as much as at her, looking at her like she's all he can see. She feels a flutter of nerves, excitement, she doesn't even know what.

And then he tilts his head a little, murmurs something about how _god_, she's pretty, and she feels it again. Charlotte's thinking she should pull away, move away, end this. She's got a whole list of reasons why they can't sleep together (Cooper, Georgia, online sex sites, deadlines, cheating, heartbreak). She should turn her head and kill the moment. But she doesn't..

Someone screams onscreen and Charlotte jolts a little, flicks her glance at the TV again for the briefest second, and when she looks back he's right there, pressing his lips to hers gently, tentatively. Charlotte freezes, then tilts her chin down just enough to break the kiss. Their noses are still bumping, barely a breath between them, and she should end it, but God, she's not quite sure she wants to. And then he's cupping her jaw, tilting her chin back toward him, and she has just enough time to exhale against his mouth before he's kissing her again, and she's kissing him back. Slow, searching kisses that make her toes curl and her belly go warm, and she's starting to get that live-wire feeling again that she gets when they're like this.

It doesn't take them long to heat up, and in no time at all, it seems, he's hooking a hand behind her knee and tugging her into his lap, hands streaking up over her torso once she's straddling him. He palms her breasts through her top and she moans softly, grinding against him, her own hands gripping the fabric at his shoulders to clutch him even closer.

It's not until he skims his hands down, slips them under her top and starts to push it up her belly that she feels a sharp lurch of uneasiness in her gut and has to call this off. She brings her hands to his, pushes them back down just as he's getting a glimpse of her bra, and shakes her head. "No."

"Okay. No sex tonight," he murmurs, fingers squeezing her hips now, mouth at her jaw, her throat. "No sex" clearly doesn't mean "no anything," and she can't do this with him. Charlotte's having trouble stringing coherent thoughts together, but there's a blinking neon light flashing DANGER in her brain, so she shakes her head again, tries to pull back.

"No. Stop, Trav." Charlotte plants her hands on his chest and manages to separate them enough for her to pull in air that doesn't smell or taste like him. "We can't do this. Any of it."

All the air rushes out of him, and his face goes disappointed and almost irritated before he drops his forehead to her shoulder, and groans, "Char."

"We can't. I can't." It feels like cheating on Cooper, and lying to Travis, and neither of those are things she wants to do again.

He presses a kiss to the spot where shoulder meets neck, and Charlotte shivers. "Lola." Then, that spot just beneath her jaw that makes goosebumps flare over her skin. "Junebug." Just below her ear. "Baby."

"Travis," she tells him again. "I mean it. Stop."

Another frustrated groan and he drops his head back against the back of the sofa, and tucks his fingers loosely into her front pockets. "Why?"

Her brows shoot up, and she tells him pointedly, "Because I said so."

"No, I mean-" He shakes his head, shifts a little beneath her, and she thinks maybe it's not the best idea to still be perched on his lap. But then he tightens his fingers in her pockets and she doesn't want to fight with him over moving. "Why can't we? Why do you keep stoppin' this?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't, Lola."

She sighs, glances down at his hands, their hips. "I'm in love with Cooper."

"That's not a reason, it's an excuse."

"Travis."

"It is. You bein' in love with Cooper has nothin' to do with you wantin' me – you and I both know better than that – so stop usin' it as an out every time we get too close for comfort."

Charlotte feels a rush of heat slide through her, and hopes it doesn't show in her cheeks. He's not entirely wrong about that, but he's not entirely right either, and she doesn't want him having the upper hand here, so she tells him, "Thought we were supposed to be friends. Isn't that what you said, way back?"

"Yeah - way back. But you don't kiss me like we're friends. And you don't kiss me like it's about you bein' stuck on someone else. So why can't we be adults and take what we both clearly want?"

Charlotte's at a loss for words. He's picked Cooper off her list of reasons, and she can't give him her sex life as another, because that conversation is certainly not one she wishes to have with him. She can't bring herself to make it about the cheating, and he's right about them both being free adults. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Shuts it again, takes in a breath and opens it. Freezes. Still nothing. All she knows right now is that her heart is pounding hard and it's not for the good reasons anymore.

"Lola. It's me." He gives her pockets a little tug, looks at her with those blue eyes all imploring-tinged-with-frustration. "Talk to me. What's holdin' you back?"

"You're going back to Georgia," she finally blurts. "You're gonna go back to Georgia, and I can't go, and if we do this, if we go there... I'm gonna get all tangled up in this again, and it's gonna be awful when you leave. And I can't do awful with you again, it crushes me. I'm already crushed right now, I can't get my heart broken _again_."

He doesn't seem to have an argument for that one, just lifts one hand to her hair and runs it through, cups the back of her head. He pulls her forehead to his and sighs. For a few minutes they just breathe together, and she can tell he's lookin' for something to say to change her mind, but he doesn't seem to come up with anything, because all he finally says is, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Trav. I'm sure. It'll hurt too much."

"But wouldn't it be worth the hurt? Havin' a few weeks of bein' together again? Really bein' together? Even if you can't move home right now - or ever... don't you ever just want it back?"

"Travis, I hurt so bad from our divorce that I didn't get myself into a serious relationship again for four years. And I'm all turned around right now, with the whole Cooper situation." He steals another kiss from her, and she lets him even though she shouldn't. "So we can be friends, or we can be..." She can't bring herself to say 'nothing' because she knows it's not true. She knows if it comes down to it, she'll stand by and watch her heart get bulldozed by him again.

"This is gonna keep happenin'."

"Then we're gonna have to keep stoppin' it."

He lets out a sigh, slumps back against the couch again and puts a few inches between them.

"I'm sorry."

Travis shakes his head. "Don't be. I should probably go."

The logical part of her knows he's right, but the part of her heart that he's already managed to steal ices over with fear at the words – and that should be all the sign she needs that stopping them is right. That she shouldn't let this go any further than friends.

"You don't have to."

"But I really should." He lets go of her pocket, slides his hand back down her thigh toward her knee.

She reaches down and grabs it, weaves their fingers. "Travis..."

"Mm?"

"A-Are we okay?" She hates that she has to ask, hates that she has to care, hates that she's gotten herself all tangled up with another guy while she's still not over the first. She's never been smart when it comes to the men she loves, though, not really. Cautious, certainly, but never smart.

He gives her something that's almost a smile, runs his hand through her hair again and nods. "Yeah, junebug, we'll be alright. If 'just friends' is what you need, then we'll do that. I have no intention of runnin' you off again by pushin' too hard, now that I have you back."

His answer draws both a flood of relief and a pang of anxiety, and she doesn't want to dwell too long on either. Instead, she gives him one last kiss, then climbs off his lap, shadows him awkwardly as he gets his things and leaves, and then she reaches immediately for the phone, time differences be damned.

It rings three times before she hears the phone fumble and fall on the other end, then a series of ripe, exhausted curses, before: "You'd better be dyin'. You'd better be bleedin' out in a gutter somewhere, calling me as you gasp your last, because you want me to know how much you love me before you-"

"You were right," Charlotte interrupts, cutting off Jen's tirade. "He's in love with me. And I'm an idiot."

For a minute there's silence, and then Jen just chuckles. "Guess it _is_ an emergency then. Alright, baby, tell me all about it."

* * *

_Up Next: Violet's return! Reviews make me a happy camper. Thanks to everyone who has been reading. :)_


	24. Chapter 24

Violet could use a martini. It's late, but Charlotte isn't exactly known for getting herself to bed early (or at all, some nights, and because she'd probably be embarrassed about the 3am crying jags, or the quiet count of crunches Vi sometimes overhears when nature calls at 4:30 in the morning, Violet never mentions them). Maybe she'll still be awake. On second thought, she doesn't even know if Charlotte is still living at her place, because clearly a lot can change in eight weeks - like Pete falling for Addison, and Lucas becoming a teenager (although, in all fairness, that last one took eleven months, not two).

When she pulls into the drive and sees Charlotte's car there, she's so relieved she doesn't even notice the other car parked out front. The kitchen light is on, she notices as she heads for the front door and sticks her key into the lock. Charlotte's a stickler for turning things off (and putting things away, and sorting things into piles, and a bunch of other little nitpicky things that sometimes make Violet wonder how Cooper managed to live with her as long as he did), so it's a pretty good indication that she's up.

Except she's not.

The living room lights are out, and a DVD menu is repeating ad nauseum, moody music and swirling colors leaking into the entryway. _True Blood_, she realizes, as the cycle starts over. She can see the top of a dark head peeking over the back of the couch cushions, and smiles. As over her as Cooper was claiming to be in Costa Rica, Violet knew better, and she had hoped that they'd maybe manage to work things out while she was away. But then she takes a step closer and the profile is all wrong. Add that to the feet propped on the coffee table (Cooper would know better than to do that in front of Charlotte), and it's definitely not her best friend sacked out on the sofa.

Violet takes a step closer to get a better look. Whoever the guy is, he's good-looking, all strong, stubbled jaw and dark, shortish curls. He's pretty much exactly what Violet thinks she'd picture if someone asked her to describe "ruggedly handsome," and Charlotte must agree because she's stretched out on the sofa next to him, her head on his lap, nose buried right up against his hip, the fingers of one hand tucked into his waistband. Mystery Guy has one hand tangled in her hair, the other cupping her shoulder, and they are both out cold.

It's a far cry from the Charlotte King that used to show up at her door in a pleather trench coat and probably nothing else, ready for a night of sexy fun that would require Violet's best noise-canceling headphones and high volume on her laptop DVD player. She'd caught Charlotte and Cooper like this, twice, but Cooper was wide awake both times. He'd told her he liked to watch her like this. Asleep. Quiet. Easy. Cuddling wasn't her default, he'd said, and he couldn't bring himself to nod off and miss it when she was in the mood.

Clearly Couch Guy is someone worth a cuddle, and Violet can't help but smile a little. Good for Charlotte. Sure, she'd rather see her with Cooper (because let's face it, there's something about them that just works, in a weird way, when they're not tripping themselves up all the time), but if that's not going to work out, she at least wants to see her happy. _Everyone deserves to be happy, right?_ Violet thinks.

For half a second, she considers waking them, but they look way too comfortable. Instead, she clicks off the TV, drapes the throw blanket over Charlotte, picks her BlackBerry up off the table and switches the alarm to "on." Then she quietly stacks up take-out containers and beer bottles (a definite change from the usual martinis, she notices), and puts them all away in the (impeccable, she's not surprised) kitchen.

There are flowers in a vase on the counter, potted herbs in the kitchen window that weren't there before, and a tall stack of mail addressed to Violet Turner wedged into a napkin holder. Other than that, it looks exactly the same as when she left.

It doesn't feel the same, though. Doesn't really feel like home.

Maybe it's just the jet lag. Maybe it's just the late night. Maybe it's that life has moved on here without her (and she knew it would, of course it would, life doesn't stop just because we walk away from it). Whatever it is, Violet is suddenly exhausted, so she leaves her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and heads to bed. Her room, thankfully, hasn't changed a bit. She peels out of her clothes and collapses on her bed. The last thing she thinks before her eyes weigh shut is that she'll have to have Charlotte catch her up on everything in the morning.

**.:.**

By the time Violet makes her way to the kitchen in the morning, Charlotte is already there, hair damp, still in her robe, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

"Good morning," Violet greets, tentatively, and Charlotte turns and grins a little too brightly, coffee mug in hand.

"You're back," she says, and Violet is wondering what Charlotte is trying to cover up in with a morning demeanor this chipper.

"I am."

"There's eggs keepin' warm in the oven if you want, and I'm refillin' the coffee pot for ya." Okay, something is definitely up. "How was Costa Rica?" There's a little bit of an edge in her voice when she says, "I hear the bananas were incredible."

"They were – it was. I wasn't there the whole time," Violet answers distractedly. "You made breakfast? You don't cook."

"I'm learnin'," Charlotte says, and Violet never realized quite how bad Charlotte is at faking out her nerves. Or quite how Southern she really sounds – I mean, she'd always been twangy, sometimes obnoxiously so, but she swears the accent is stronger now than ever. "Dinner can be a bit touch-and-go, but I'm gettin' good at breakfast."

"Trying to impress the new boyfriend in the mornings?" Violet guesses, and Charlotte makes this face she can't even interpret, then just let's out a high, noncommittal, "Hmm?"

"When I got in last night, you were-"

"Oh, him," she dismisses, waving a hand, and Violet thinks she knows exactly what Charlotte's covering for now. She must've realized already that Violet was home, and that she'd been caught with her pants down, so to speak. Violet just smirks. This is a new reaction from Charlotte King.

Charlotte grabs a plate from the cupboard, a skillet from the oven, and starts dishing up eggs as she explains, "That's just Travis; he's an old friend from college."

Friend. Right. "He seemed pretty _friendly_ for a friend."

"Well. Blame that one on him. Fell asleep with my head on his shoulder, woke up with it in his crotch," Charlotte drawls with a roll of her eyes, and she actually manages to sell that one. "But I assure you. Travis and I are just friends. He's in town for a bit, and we've been catchin' up." She sets the plate down in front of Violet, and it's piled with eggs scrambled with bits of something – bacon, it looks like, and peppers, all held together with stringy cheddar cheese. It looks delicious and smells even better, and Violet's mouth is already watering. "And he cooks like nobody's business."

Violet actually laughs a little, shaking her head and digging in. "Wow," she mutters around the first bite.

"I know," Charlotte agrees, sipping her coffee.

"Where is he? He needs to know this is incredible."

"I kicked him out, bright and early." Ah, that sounds more like the Charlotte she knows. "Besides, he doesn't need any more ego stroking when it comes to his cookin'. He's well aware how good he is in the kitchen."

"Still. When you see him again, do me a favor and pass it along."

"I will be sure not to do that," Charlotte smirks. "Now, what's this you were sayin' about not bein' in Costa Rica this whole time?"

"I've been in New York, for a while. I almost moved there, actually," Violet confesses, and bless her, Charlotte just raises her brows a little and sips her coffee again. It's not the first time she's been grateful for Charlotte King's selective lack of judgment. "But then I didn't. I realized I needed to be back here, with Lucas."

"Wow," she says, and she sounds genuinely impressed. Violet lets out a breath she hadn't really even realized she was holding. "Well, good for you." And then, "Cooper never mentioned you were in New York."

Violet has the decency to look a little sheepish. "I didn't exactly... tell him." Going off the grid might have been a little selfish, but it was what she'd needed to do.

Charlotte's brows rise back up. "You haven't talked to him in weeks? No wonder he's been such a charmer," she mutters sarcastically, and Violet winces internally.

"I needed some time to myself. To deal with all my..."

"…horrible things that need sayin'?" Charlotte asks, and Violet nods.

"Yeah." A lot of the month after Lucas is a blur, but that conversation she remembers like it happened yesterday.

Charlotte swallows the last of her coffee, sets her cup in the sink. "Well, I'm not gonna pry. I'm not a prier. But we are well-stocked for martinis, should the need arise."

"Thanks. But I'm good now. I really am."

"Glad to hear it," Charlotte tells her, heading toward the kitchen door. She pauses just before going through it and adds, "And I'm glad you're back. I'd hate to have to replant your garden _again_."

Violet just laughs and scoops up another forkful of eggs.


	25. Chapter 25

"Ugh, Charlotte," Violet sighs, scowling as she pulls up in front of her house.

Charlotte's car is blocking the garage. Smack dab in the center of the driveway, so Violet can't get around her. It wouldn't be that big of a deal if the sky hadn't just opened up in a sudden downpour, and while Violet's car could probably use a wash, it's the principle of it all. Who center parks in a driveway when they have a roommate?

Violet parks next to the curb, and hugs her purse to her body as she darts inside (she'd hold it over her head, but it's her good purse, and she'd rather not ruin in with rain). It's only a few yards to the door, but she still ends up looking like a drowned rat. And on top of that, there's no sign of Charlotte once Violet gets inside, so she can't even yell at her properly.

She kicks off already-soggy shoes at the door and trudges up the stairs, heading for the bathroom and a towel to dry her hair. The door is shut, and as she gets closer she hears the sound of a running shower (the rain had drowned it out from downstairs), then the squeak as the knob turns and the shower cuts off. Modesty be damned, she's irritated.

Violet takes a deep breath, musters up her best I-can-handle-Charlotte-King determination, and pushes the door open. "Charlotte, do you think- You're not Charlotte."

She feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she fully registers the sight in front of her: about six feet of rugged good looks, one of her fluffy lavender bath towels slung low on his hips, water still clinging to his skin and curling the ends of his dark hair. Well... that's... mortifying and kind of pleasant all at the same time.

To his credit, Travis doesn't miss a beat, just steadies the towel tucked at his waist with one hand and reaches the other out toward her with a smile. "Hi there. You must be Violet."

Violet takes it, awkwardly, and shakes. She's gaping, she knows she is, and it's not that he's so good-looking (although he is – there's a nicely defined body to go with that handsome face), it's just that this is not at all what she was expecting and apparently it's taking her brain a minute to catch up.

And to make matters worse, that smile widens and he tells her, "You don't close that mouth, somethin's gonna come along and build a nest in it."

Violet snaps her mouth shut – and then snaps out of it, shaking her head and chuckling a little. "I'm sorry, I just – you startled me. Travis, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is Charlotte here? I need her to move her car."

"Ah, no. She ran out for groceries – which I'm sure she'll bitch about as soon as she gets back, now that it's rainin'." He adjusts the towel at his waist, and Violet dutifully keeps her eyes on his face. "Her car's been givin' her trouble; I was fixin' it, got all greasy. She took mine to the store."

"Oh. Well, do you have the keys? I can't get into the garage."

Travis winces, then looks all sorts of apologetic. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't think. Don't you worry about it – I'll go ahead and move it, just as soon as I get some pants on."

Violet lets out another nervous laugh and says, "Right. Sorry. I'm gonna... get out of your doorway now. If you could just hand me a towel...?"

"Sure thing," he says, turning to reach into the cabinet and pull one out (back view doesn't suck either). He hands it so her, gives her another of those charming smiles, and Violet shuts the door behind her.

She has the sudden urge to giggle at the ridiculousness of what just happened, and has to stifle it in her towel until she gets to her bedroom.

**.:.**

Ten minutes later, Violet's car is in the garage, Charlotte's is getting a carwash courtesy of Mother Nature, and Violet and Travis are sitting around the kitchen island sipping coffee.

"So you went to school with Charlotte?" Violet asks, trying to make polite small talk. Travis smiles a little and hesitates, before nodding slowly.

"She tell you all sorts of embarrassing stories about me or somethin'?"

If it's fishing, he's good at it, because Violet shakes her head and tells him, "No, she didn't tell me anything actually. Just 'that was Travis, he's a friend from college.'"

Travis' brows raise for a second, and he looks none too pleased, but he covers it a moment later. "That's mostly true, I guess."

"Mostly true?" Aha. She knew Charlotte was hiding something.

"Well, I spent a lot of time with her during college, but we didn't actually go to school together. Her best friend is a friend of mine, so we spent a lot of time together during the summer, breaks, things like that."

"Ah." Violet can't resist asking, "What was she like back then? Was she already tough-as-nails Charlotte King, or...?"

"Lola was born tough," he tells her, and it takes a split-second for Violet to realize he's still talking about Charlotte. "That woman can argue with a fence post, always been that way. Her Momma used to say she came into the world hollerin' and never let up."

"You call her Lola?" _And you know her mother?_ she adds, to herself.

He falters for a second, glances to the side and hesitates. Oh, there's definitely more going on here than meets the eye, and Violet is nothing if not nosy enough to find out. "Uhhh, yes. I do. Only me, though, really. It's kind of an inside thing."

"Inside thing," Violet repeats with a smile and a nod. "So you two must've been close."

"Yeah, you could say that," he mutters into his coffee cup.

"Did you date?"

He chokes a little on the mouthful he'd been about to swallow, then clears his throat before answering, "For a little while, yeah. Didn't work out." Violet doesn't miss the way he glances toward the door. He's looking for Charlotte, she realizes, and from the way he's shifting and fiddling with the handle of his mug, she's pretty sure he's worried about getting himself in trouble.

"Rekindling the flame again after all these years?" she tries. Travis lips curve into something between a smile and a grimace, and he's not meeting her eyes. He shakes his head.

"No, just friends. That ship, uh... I guess it sailed a while ago."

"Got it." She doubts that. "Did you break her heart or did she break yours?"

"A little of both," he admits, "But mostly me. I was a jerk. Fully deserved the dumpin' I got. But I'd imagine she wouldn't be too fond of me airin' all our dirty laundry, so, uh, let's talk about you." There's something in the way he says it that makes her think she'll have trouble guiding him back into juicy storytelling mode. There might as well be an intercom announcement: _Ladies and gentlemen, the gossip train is approaching its final stop, please take your belongings with you when you disembark_. "Where did you spend this fine Saturday afternoon?"

"With Cooper," Violet answers, and she doesn't miss the way his lips press into a line for just a second at the name. Not a fan of Cooper, then, but definitely knows the name. Maybe she can do some subtle digging in that vein. "My best friend. He's actually how I met Charlotte – they used to date."

"Yeah, I've heard." He sips his coffee again, licks his lips, sets the mug down. "You were in Costa Rica, right?" Damnit. Deflected. "I went there back in college. A whole bunch of us went down one spring break, did a white water rafting tour."

"Oh man, I missed that. I saw the ads for it, and thought about doing this whole live-on-the-edge, take-risks thing right before I left, but then all the excursions for the next few weeks were booked up, and it was time for a change of scene... You know how that goes." It occurs to her that he might not, but all he does is smile and nod, and ask her where she stayed in Costa Rica.

They spend a few minutes comparing notes about Costa Rican resorts and excursions – and then Jamaica and the Keys – and then the front door slams and Charlotte's frustrated grunt echoes in from the living room. "Travis?"

"In the kitchen," he calls back.

"It is a goddamned frog strangler out there," she fumes, her voice getting closer by the second. "I am soaked clean through and these paper grocery bags are-hello, Violet, I didn't realize you were home."

She's stopped just inside the kitchen door, wet hair plastered to her cheek and soggy paper grocery bags in each arm. Travis moves immediately to take them from her.

"My car's in the garage," Violet explains, watching the way Charlotte watches the two of them. Suspicious. Uneasy.

"Right. Of course." She looks from one to the other, then back again. "You two makin' friends?"

"We are," Travis confirms, settling the bags on the countertop and pulling out greens and chicken and a few other things Violet can't see. "I was just tellin' her about that time you tumbled off the sailboat in Key West."

"Oh, that time I almost drowned on vacation? Yeah, that was real funny," she sneers, pushing wet hair back out of her face before unearthing a clean dish towel and using it to wring out the wetness and wipe off her face and collar.

"Well, that part of it wasn't so funny, but the look on your face as you fell overboard-"

"I'm sorry, 'fell'?" Charlotte brows are up at her hairline now, and Violet's just kicking back and watching the show. "I did not _fall_ off that boat, Travis Evans, I was pushed off by _your _brother. On a dare from you."

Travis looks at Violet and gives her what she imagines is his best mischievous grin.

"And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't have good-ol'-days story time when I'm not around, thank you," Charlotte snips, and Travis nods contritely.

"Yes, ma'am. You ready to cook?"

Charlotte's still scowling at him, but she reaches for the knife block and nods.

"Can I help you guys with anything?" Violet ventures, but Travis waves her back into her seat.

"Absolutely not," he tells her. "Dinner's in forty-five minutes. You can just sit tight-"

"Actually," Charlotte interrupts. "I need to talk to Travis for a minute. Alone. So scoot."

"Lola," Travis scolds, and Violet's brows go up. This should be good. "Don't be rude."

Charlotte's jaw drops a little and she looks at him for a beat, two, then, "I will talk to my roommate however I damned well please, Travis Evans, don't you _Lola_ me. I do not need the Southern Manners Police in my own damned home."

And that's the Charlotte King Violet knows and (kind of, sort of, though she'd never admit it) loves. Violet smirks and stands as Charlotte continues her tirade. "I'm just gonna... go," she mutters mostly to herself, before slipping out the door.

Well, these two should keep her entertained for the evening.

**.:.**

Whatever they're bickering over (Violet decided to actually give them their privacy and not listen in – that, and the whole spat happened in hushed voices she couldn't hear from the living room), they're over it by the time dinner is ready. The three of them eat together, and actually manage pleasant dinner conversation. Violet still gets the feeling there's something she's not being told, but she has to admit that when they're not snoozing on the couch or bickering, Charlotte and Travis seem just like old friends. When they've cleared their plates, Travis ushers her out of the dining room, assuring that they'll clean up, and she needn't worry herself over it.

Violet's not really used to being treated like a guest in her own home, but it certainly doesn't suck, so she takes the time to head upstairs and answer a few of the bazillion emails she has piled up from her time away.

When she comes back downstairs almost an hour later, the house is so silent that she thinks they've left. And then she hears the music: hesitant, stilted piano chords coming from the back room she affectionately calls her "crap collector." She has an old keyboard tucked away in there, from when she'd gotten it in her head that she was going to learn to play. She'd called it a self-improvement project, and then lost her motivation somewhere after "Chopsticks" and "Heart and Soul." The keyboard has been collecting dust ever since.

There's guitar now, too, and low voices, and Violet creeps her way down the hall and spies the light spilling into the hallway from where the door is cracked ajar. She peeks inside, and sees Charlotte at the piano, Travis next to her with a guitar.

"No, that was good, I liked that," he tells her. "Try it again."

They play again, and it's still a little tentative, their voices mixing just a little out of sync on the lyrics of a slow ballad: _It's the same old words, the same old song. Maybe we're right... where we belong._

"Okay, good, and then-"

_It can't get much better, and it sure can't get worse. Either way we try, it's gonna hurt._

"Can we hold it there for a second?" she asks, playing the last few lines through again quickly - "_Can't get much better, sure can't get worse,_" He picks up the guitar part_. "Either way we turn, it's gonna hurt_- and wait, two, three, and then go."

"Yeah, I like that. We can do that. Play it over?"

They do, and Violet finds herself stuck there, rapt. It's like staring through the wardrobe into Narnia. She'd never in a million years imagined she'd ever see Charlotte King writing a song, but she's pretty sure that's what's happening in her spare room right now.

They're singing through another verse, or a chorus or something, all about heartbreak and going back for more even when you shouldn't, and she'd think it was a sign that the two of them are more than friends after all if the lyrics didn't sound like the theme song of the Charlotte and Cooper show.

"Repeat the last few lines of the chorus here at the end?" Travis suggests, and Charlotte nods, plays through it. "Okay, once all the way through?"

"Yeah," Charlotte murmurs, and then they start in at the beginning.

_Our love story reads like a book of lies  
Good intentions, better alibis  
No happy endings, no straight lines  
No moving on, but no goodbyes_

_This bittersweet revelry will be the death of me_

_We go round and round tryin' to work it out  
And all I get's hell bent and bound  
Never far from right where we are  
You'd think that we'd get enough  
And know we're gonna fuck it up  
We're holdin' on, we're sinkin' down  
Here we go round and round  
Makin' circles, makin' circles_

_We both need to lead while we dance along  
One more graceful spin on who's right or wrong  
It's the same old words, it's the same old song  
Maybe we're right where we belong  
And it can't much better and it sure can't get worse  
Well, either way you turn, it's gonna hurt_

_We go round and round tryin' to work it out  
And all I get's hell bent and bound  
Never far from right where we are  
You'd think that we would get enough  
And know we're gonna fuck it up  
We're holdin' on, we're sinkin' down  
Here we go round and round  
Makin' circles, makin' circles_

_You'd think that we had had enough  
Be sick and tired of fuckin' up  
Holdin' on, sinkin' down  
Here we go, round and round..._

By the end, Charlotte's voice is wavering, and if Violet didn't know better, she'd think she was crying. She heaves a heavy sigh, and Travis sets his guitar aside, rubs his palm between her shoulder blades in a slow circle. Charlotte lifts a hand and wipes at her face – guess that was crying, after all.

Charlotte whispers something to Travis that Violet can't make out, and then drops her head onto his shoulder. Travis presses his nose against her hair, breathes in deep, and she can just make it out when he says, "It'll get better. You'll get over him. I promise."

It suddenly feels like Violet is intruding on something very, very personal, and she takes a few quiet steps back and heads upstairs again to give them some time. One thing is for sure: whatever Travis Evans might be to her, Charlotte is still far from over Cooper.

.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_I take absolutely no credit for the song in this chapter. It is "Making Circles" by Christian Kane (check it out on YouTube or iTunes or Rhapsody). Up next: Cooper!_


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note:** _I just want to put a quick disclaimer here to remind y'all that Cooper sometimes says some unkind things when he's mad. But he will simmer down a bit by the next time we see him after this chapter, I promise. Also, on a totally unrelated note: I was having a conversation with another author about the downsides of being the only one who knows what your original characters really look like, so I have a question for y'all - would you folks like to see a photo of the actor that is the physical model for Travis in my brain?_

* * *

The idea behind all the glass walls at Oceanside was to make it feel roomier. To increase the natural light. That's what Cooper has always figured anyway. But it turns out that glass walls reveal a lot more than light, and he's never thought more about them than he has in the time since he started – and stopped – sleeping with Charlotte. In the beginning, it was wondering how he could carry on an affair with St. Ambrose's Chief of Staff, right there in his office, without his coworkers noticing that he was suddenly shutting the blinds every time she came by for a "consult." Then, it was the looks and occasional comments he got once everyone _knew _they were together, and he shut the blinds every time she came by.

When she moved into the practice, he discovered a voyeuristic side he'd never fully realized – he'd linger sometimes in the sightline to her office, watching her work without her knowing. It was nice, just to see her in her element, frowning over something on her computer, poking her pen against her lip. Or it had been, then. After the breakup, it was hell – seeing her everywhere. In her office, at the front desk, in the kitchen. Everywhere he looked, it was Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte. And then she started closing the blinds whenever Sheldon stopped by for a "consult," and Cooper was torn between wanting to stab himself in the eye with something and being totally, completely over it. She wants to settle for Sheldon, that's fine with him. Not like it's going anywhere. Already over, and that's no surprise.

But now… now, she's in the kitchen, with some guy. Some good-looking, dark-haired guy who is pulling take-out containers out of bags while she grabs plates, and they're chatting about God knows what, and she's got that I'm-irritated-but-can't-help-smiling-at-you thing going on that she used to reserve for him. He tells himself he's not jealous, that he's over her, totally over her (a few regrets, but what's done is done), but he can't look away. He also can't help but notice that whoever this new guy is, he looks just a little bit like Cooper himself. He thinks of Scott-the-pill-popper, and of thinking the same thing – dark hair, light eyes, not enough of a resemblance to be obvious, but enough that he'd notice. She really needs to stop reaching for guys to make him jealous; it's a little beneath her. And it's not working anyway.

"What are we looking at?" Violet asks, as she stops next to him. He looks away, but not fast enough, because she follows his gaze and says, "Oh. That's what we're looking at."

"She has a new boyfriend."

"I wouldn't call him a boyfriend."

There's a little satisfaction in that (not that he cares, because he doesn't care), and Cooper smirks. "New lover-of-the-week then. Whatever. He looks like me."

"What?" Violet makes a face. "No, he doesn't."

"Sure he does. Come on, tall, good looking, a little scruffy around the edges. It's just like Scott. She's dating guys to make me jealous." He shuffles the charts in his hands and shakes his head, pitying her. "It's sad. And not going to work."

"Obviously not," Violet mutters, and he can tell from her tone that she's not convinced.

"I'm not jealous. I pity her, really. Scott doesn't work, so she sleeps with Sheldon. When I'm okay with that, she moves on to another guy who bears a resemblance. I mean, come on. She needs to let go. Move on with her life."

"Maybe Charlotte just has a type," she suggests, and Cooper wonders when the hell his best friend became the defender of his ex. She's supposed to be on his side, isn't she?

"Please. Charlotte's type is 'breathing.' Her headboard has so many notches, she's started down the legs."

"Cooper," Violet admonishes lightly, and he feels that flare of irritation again. Best friends are supposed to agree with you on this crap after a breakup. She used to be good at this stuff. He'd blame it on the Costa Rica zen, but he figures that wore off somewhere around New York. "Besides, being indiscriminate about sex doesn't mean she doesn't have a preference for guys she's actually interested in dating."

"I thought you said they weren't dating," he points out, giving her his best "gotcha" face.

"I did," she agrees slowly, nodding, and Cooper knows there's more to the story than she's letting on, but before he can needle her some more, she catches sight of someone over his shoulder and he's lost her attention. "Sheldon, hi."

"Hello, Violet. Cooper." He nods a little in Cooper's direction, then turns his attention back to Violet. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about a patient."

Cooper takes the opportunity to glance at the kitchen again, and he clenches his jaw for reasons he doesn't want to think about. Charlotte and her new conquest are sitting together now, their backs to him, so close together that their elbows are bumping. They're still talking, and he can see their faces in quarter-profile. Charlotte is smiling, and when the guy nudges his shoulder intentionally into hers, she laughs and elbows him lightly. He gives her an inch of space, and she's still smiling as she shakes her head. She looks happy. Cooper feels a sharp stab of something in his chest, then soothes it with the knowledge that whoever this guy is, he's just another replacement. Hell, she's probably just being all friendly and happy for show. Because she knows he'll see, and she's trying to get to him. Cooper resolves not to let her, and turns his attention back to Sheldon and Violet.

Who have turned their attention to the kitchen. Great.

"Oh," Sheldon remarks, looking genuinely interested, and maybe a little envious. "Who's that?"

"That's the new you," Cooper announces, because there's no point in pretending Sheldon was anything important.

Violet rolls her eyes at him. Again. "That's Travis," she tells him. "And he's not the 'new you.' They're not together."

If anything Sheldon looks even more interested, but he doesn't look at all jealous now. "Really. _That's_ Travis. Hmm."

"You know Travis?" Violet asks, her face going curious and skeptical all at once.

"We talked about him. Once or twice."

"Wow. Talking about the new conquests with the guy she's screwing. That's classy, even for her," Cooper mutters, shaking his head.

"Well, as Violet pointed out, he's not a conquest," Sheldon says, adding, "And I wouldn't exactly call him new."

"Right," Vi says. "They're old college friends."

"They look pretty chummy for just pals," Cooper points out as Travis waves his fork like he's trying to feed Charlotte a bite of something, and she turns her head away, giving him another shove. There's no heat behind it, though. It's just... casual. Like everything else they've done. It took him months to get Charlotte to be casual.

"Well, they have a history. Old, uh, college friends and all," Sheldon says next to him.

And Cooper must have missed something, because suddenly Violet jumps just a little, and gets this look of revelation on her face, before blurting, "Oh. _Oh_," like she's just connected some particularly intriguing dots. She looks at Sheldon, who suddenly looks like maybe he's spilled some beans. Cooper gets the feeling he's out of the loop somehow.

They have this whole conversation without saying anything – a questioning brow raise from Violet, a guilty tilt of the head from Sheldon, and then Vi is shaking her head, smiling. "_Oh_. That makes more sense."

"'Oh,' what?" Cooper asks, irritated by the whole thing. Is this how people feel when he and Violet do that? "What makes more sense?"

"Nothing," Sheldon says quickly, and he's definitely backtracking now. What the hell? "You know, I think we should let Charlotte's personal life be her business. She's not a big fan of gossip, and I think we've done enough of that now."

"Yeah, well, as her ex, I don't really care." He turns to Violet. "Vi, I'm invoking my best friend right-to-know. 'Oh' what?"

"Cooper…"

"No. NO. You don't get to do this, okay? You can live with her, you can be friends with her, there's nothing I can do about that, but you don't get to dangle stuff in front of me like that and then not tell me. 'Oh' what?"

"Ah…" She hesitates, looks at Sheldon (who shakes his head, and Cooper wants to put a fist in his face again and tell him to mind his own damn business), then at the kitchen, then back at Cooper. "That's Charlotte's ex."

"Her… what?"

He makes the connection right as Violet opens her mouth to add "husband" and his stomach drops. He looks at the couple in the kitchen again – and they are a couple, no matter what Violet might be saying – and feels like he's been kicked in the gut. It's suddenly much less amusing that the guy looks anything like him.

"Oh," he says dumbly. And then the fury hits. "That's her husband? _That?_ That's the guy she hasn't spoken to since the divorce, because it ended badly and she doesn't want to talk about it? _That_." He points a finger in their direction, and Violet shoves his arm down by the wrist.

"It's very recent," Sheldon tells him, and Cooper thinks about hitting him just because he can.

He settles for stepping into his space. "You shut up! I don't want to hear from you right now."

"Keep it down, Cooper," Violet hisses, pulling him toward her office, and he's vaguely aware that people are looking, but he doesn't care. Right now he just doesn't care. He's seeing red, and all he can think is, _That lying bitch_.

By the time Violet shuts her office door behind them, they've lost Sheldon, but Cooper doesn't much care. "I can't believe her. I can't _believe_ her. For months – _months _– I tried to get her to talk about it, to tell me what happened – to at least tell me why she wouldn't _tell_ me. And she went on and on about how it ended badly and she didn't want to talk about it, when clearly it was just because she's been in love with the guy this whole time!"

"Cooper-"

"No. No. Don't deny it, don't even try. That-" He points at the kitchen again, belatedly realizing the blinds are shut. "Is not what 'ended badly' looks like. That's not what 'I don't want to talk about it' looks like. That's what dating looks like. And that guy? That guy is what_ I_ look like, so don't tell me I'm being ridiculous. Me, Scott – yeah, you're right. She does have a different type for dating and that type is _her_ _ex_."

"Or," Violet begins carefully, and he hates the fact that she's treating him with kid gloves. With patient gloves, really, and he's not her damned patient. "She likes her guys tall, dark, and handsome."

"Don't be ridiculous, Violet. And why are you defending her, anyway? You're supposed to be _my_ best friend!"

"I'm not defending her; I'm just saying you may be jumping to conclusions. They're not dating."

Cooper scoffs, face twisting in disgust. "Yes, they are-"

"No. They're not. Not according to Charlotte, and frankly, if that is her ex-husband, not dating is probably a good thing."

"She used me." He's pacing now, back and forth in front of the closed door. His heart is thudding hard and quick in his chest, and there's a sick feeling of betrayal churning in his gut. He can't believe this. He _knew_ this, as soon as she said she'd been married, he _knew_ this was coming.

"Cooper."

"No, she used me. Couldn't have him, so she uses me. As soon as we're over, bam! Look who's back: the ex. The ex she can't even talk about, but she can make flirty eyes with in the kitchen _right in front of me. _ That bitch – that selfish, lying, cheating bitch!"

"Cooper! Calm down."

But he's not calming down. He's had enough, damnit, and he's not waiting. No, he's going to go give her a piece of his mind right now. Without another word to Violet, he turns on his heel and shoves the door open, headed for the kitchen, and let's just see how tough this ex-husband is. Cooper's ready, he can take him.

He's halfway across the lobby before he realizes they're not in the kitchen anymore. A quick glance in the direction of her office shows that's empty, too, which means they're probably not in the practice anymore, period. Still seeing red, Cooper stalks back into his own office, slamming the door behind him and kicking the garbage can next to his desk, hard. It skids and falls, sending balled up papers, candy wrappers, and a banana peel skittering across the floor.

He can't believe he was ever stupid enough to fall in love with her. Even worse, he can't believe he didn't realize that he'd never really fallen out.


	27. Chapter 27

"You couldn't just keep your mouth shut, could ya? Had to go run your yap."

"I'm sorry," Sheldon tells Charlotte, watching as she paces back and forth, back and forth in front of his office door. "I really didn't mean to-"

"Oh yeah, it just slipped out, right? You just _happened_ to tell my ex-boyfriend that I was chumming it up in the kitchen with my ex-husband. And _you!_" She whirled on Travis then, and Sheldon was just glad to be out of the line of fire for a moment. "You just had to show up here, had to bring me lunch even though I _told_ youI didn't want you visiting me at work. Well, now do you see why?"

"Yes, ma'am, and I am sorry," he tells her, the very picture of contriteness with his head ducked just a little and his hands clasped behind his back. She doesn't seem at all mollified, just rolling her eyes and barreling ahead.

"Oh sure, you're sorry. You're sorry. Great. Well, that's just great. You're sorry, and my ex is pissed, and now I have Violet texting me to tell me that I should lay low for another twenty minutes until his next appointment, so he doesn't have a chance to rage at me at work. You were, what? Pissed that I lied to Violet about us? All insecure that you're my dirty little secret or something? Well, there you go. Secret's out. My work life is about to become a lot more difficult, but at least you got your moment in the sun."

"Alright, that's enough," he cuts her off, a little more fire in his voice now, although he doesn't move from his spot on the arm of Sheldon's couch. "I didn't come here for attention, and you know that – or you should, anyway. I came here because I wanted to see you. I wanted to surprise you with lunch. I wanted to see where you work. If I'd known you didn't want me here because it would set your ex off, I wouldn't've come, but you didn't tell me that."

"I most certainly did."

"No, Lola, you didn't. You said don't come to the practice, because they're all nosy SOB's and they'll gossip about it all day long, but you didn't say-"

"Is that not reason enough for you? The gossip, and the nosiness?"

"Honestly?" He shrugs a little, and Sheldon sees what's coming and thinks Travis is either very brave or very stupid. "No. People gossip, Charlotte, it's what they do. And if you think your roommate was never going to let it slip to her _best friend_ that you were seeing your ex-"

"My roommate didn't know you were my ex-"

"And how long did you think that would last, Charlotte? I'm around plenty, at some point she's going to figure out that we're not just friends-"

"We _are_ just friends-"

"That we're not just new friends, then."

"It's true," Sheldon cuts in, not really sure he wants to get in the middle of this, but, well, Travis does have a point. "It didn't take Violet long to put two and two together. All I said was that you guys had a history – after she said you were college buddies – and she connected the dots."

Charlotte presses her lips into a hard line and shakes her head, but doesn't say anything. She just keeps treading a hole in his carpet, one pass at a time.

"Lola." Travis stands, finally, stepping into Charlotte's path and settling his hands on her shoulders to stop her pacing. She crosses her arms tight over her chest, and he rubs his palms down to her elbows, then back up. Sheldon expects her to keep up the hiss-and-spit, but to his surprise, she just stands there. Oh sure, she stares him down, but she seems at least willing to listen to whatever he has to say. "It was bound to come up eventually. You'd have dealt with it then, you'll deal with it now. Okay? He can be as mad as he wants, but we're not doing anything wrong. He's not your boyfriend anymore – there's nothing wrong we could do. And you know that."

"It was just easier with him not knowin'."

"I know."

"And even if I manage to avoid him for the rest of the day, I live with his best friend. If he's so damned determined to talk at me about all this – which Violet seems to think he is – he knows exactly where to find me."

"So don't be there," Travis shrugs. "Control the conversation. Stay with me."

"You have a gig tonight – isn't that why you insisted on this little surprise lunch in the first place?"

"You can stay with me for the night," Sheldon offers, hoping it won't be too terribly awkward, considering their history.

"No, that's alright," Travis tells him, and Sheldon takes note of both the way the other man dismisses him, and the way Charlotte's brows raise in challenge. Sheldon is well aware of Charlotte's dislike for pissing contests, and being pushed around. Figuring she's mad enough as it is, he shrugs and backs off. "I'll go right now, get my key copied, and you can have the place to yourself for the night until I get home."

"And if I want to stay with Sheldon?" she challenges, standing a little straighter, lifting her chin high.

Travis quirks his brow for a second, presses his lips together, and then shrugs nonchalantly. He almost pulls it off. "Then stay with Sheldon. I'm not your keeper."

Sheldon has to make a conscious effort to hold back a laugh – Travis may not be Charlotte's keeper, but he's not sure he believes this "just friends" thing they're trying to pull off. He wonders if either of them is buying it either.

"No. You're not," she tells him. "Get your key copied and give it to me. – at the hospital, this afternoon. Do _not_ come back here today. I'll decide where I want to stay tonight. You'll know when you get home."

"Fine." He gives her shoulders a squeeze, and tells her, "I really am sorry," before dropping his hands and giving Sheldon a wave as he heads to the door. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise," Sheldon nods back, and then watches as Charlotte flops down onto his sofa, tilting her head back and shutting her eyes as she blows out a frustrated breath.

Figuring it's best to leave her alone, Sheldon sits down as his desk, and spends the rest of her time in there looking over patient notes.


	28. Chapter 28

It's late when Travis gets home, and he's beat, which is what he uses as his excuse when he realizes that he didn't even notice Charlotte's car parked on the street before he climbed the stairs. In fact, he doesn't clue in to the fact that she's there until after he's put his things away in the living room, eaten a sandwich, and headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth. There's an extra toothbrush in the holder, and it's damp. Travis squeezes a little toothpaste out of the nearly-empty tube, trying to leave enough for both of them in the morning, then pops it in his mouth before he walks across the hall and peeks into the bedroom. Sure enough, there she is, out cold on the far side of his bed.

Well, good. He'd rather have her here with him than spending the night with some other guy, whether they're sleeping together or not. If it's not really his place to feel that way, then, well, too bad. What's he supposed to do about it? If not caring about her was an option for him, he'd have done it years ago when she left. Couldn't quite let her go then, and he certainly can't now, when he might very well have a second chance to get back what he lost. As it is, he's helpless to her when she's around, and if the number of times he's heard one of them say the phrase "just friends" in the last few weeks (or the times they've ended up kissing each others' faces off) is any indication, he's pretty sure he's not alone. 'Protesting too much,' and all that.

He finishes up in the bathroom, and flicks the light off, glad there's enough moon tonight that he doesn't have to bother her by turning on the bedroom light. He tugs off his shirt, strips out of his jeans, and rounds the bed, nearly tripping over her purse in the process. He curses quietly and glances at the bed; Charlotte shifts a little, but doesn't wake. At least, not until he sits on the edge of the bed next to her, and brushes tousled hair out of her face. Then she makes a little noise, squirms, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "Cooper?" as her lashes flutter.

Travis scowls, and then says softly, "No, junebug. It's me. Travis."

She blinks her eyes open then, peers at him in the dark. "Oh." She rubs her eyes a little, and he thinks she's just plain adorable all sleepy like this (because it's better than thinking about the little tug of jealousy in his gut that she assumed he was her prick of an ex). Her words are slurred with fatigue, but he makes them out just fine: "Was dreaming."

"Good dreams or bad?" he asks, threading his fingers in her hair now, his thumb tracing back and forth against the edge of her forehead. Her eyes droop again, and she just grunts in reply, and he's not sure if that means she's too tired to talk or that she just doesn't feel like answering, so he leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep, junebug. You want me to sleep here with you, or take the sofa?"

"With me," she breathes, and Travis smiles.

"Okay." He manages to avoid her purse this time as he crosses to the other side of the room, and slides into the bed next to her. He lays close, but not too close, letting his arm rest against her back because he likes the feel of her here, in his bed, with him. He feels her shift, and she moves in slow motion, one arm dragging over and reaching for him. When he threads their fingers she tugs at him, pulls his arm toward her, and Travis shifts onto his side and scoots closer. "Like this?"

"Mmhmm."

She settles back against him until she's nestled in comfortably, her back to his front, his arm snug around her torso. Well, this is a nice surprise. Travis lets his nose rest against her hair, breathes in the smell of sleep and shampoo, and indulges himself in pressing another kiss against her. Because he can. Because she's letting him.

He expects her to settle into sleep right away again, although he's not sure why – she never was an easy sleeper. She shifts a little. Then a little more a minute later. Travis traces his fingers through her hair, down her arm. Finally, she sighs, murmurs to him, "How was work?"

"Good. Decent place, good crowd."

"You smell like beer."

"I'm sorry…"

He feels her shoulder jerk a little in a half-assed shrug. "S'okay."

They lay there for another minute, her body heavy against his, but he can tell she's not asleep yet. Sure enough, she sighs and squirms suddenly, shifting onto her back and then turning to face him. She slings an arm over him, and nestles in close, her nose brushing his collar. Travis rubs his palm up and down her back, slow and soothing. She tries to work her way even closer, legs tangling with his, and Travis realizes that she's clinging. And Charlotte doesn't cling. "You okay?"

She sighs again, deep and despondent, and Travis slides his other arm under her head so she's wrapped up tight against him. "Just… blue," she murmurs.

"Why?"

She shrugs a little, and he draws his hand up until he can scratch his fingers lightly up and down the nape of her neck. It always seemed to soothe her when they were married. "It's nothing."

"You sure?"

"Mmhmm."

"Okay." She's lying, and he knows it, but it's late, and she should sleep, so he decides to let it go this time, and just hold her. Her head is laying just so against his arm, and after a minute his fingers begin to tingle, so he eases onto his back and draws her with him. She cushions her head on his chest, drapes a leg over his and settles.

Travis is just starting to nod off himself when he hears her say, "He just says nasty things when he's mad. That's all. And I'm sick of fightin'."

"Mm?"

"Cooper."

"Did you talk to him?" Now he's the one starting to slur his words, but he blinks his eyes open and makes an effort for her. And because, frankly, he has a vested interest in whether or not she works things out with the other guy.

"No. But I will. And he'll be hurtful. Mean." She adjusts her head, tugs the covers a little higher over them, and he hates the weariness in her voice when she says, "I'm just so tired of hurtin' over him."

"He's not worth it," Travis tells her, wanting to say a few other choice words about Cooper Freedman (and truth be told, he's sick of talking about him), but he doesn't figure either of them are up for it tonight. Besides, if he pisses her off, she'll leave, and he'd rather suck it up and play the supportive friend if it means he gets to have her all pressed up against him tonight.

"Still hurts."

"I know." Travis turns his head until he can kiss hers one more time, then threads his fingers into her hair again.

He thinks maybe she's asleep, and he almost is, again, when she says his name and lifts her head suddenly, propping herself on an elbow. Travis cracks his eyes open, focuses on the way her face is shadowed in the dim light. She seems wide awake now, and he feels almost bad for waking her in the first place. "Yeah?"

"We're not pullin' off 'just friends,' are we?" she asks, but he can tell that she already knows the answer.

"No."

"Do you love me again?"

"Never stopped."

He can just barely make out the way she rolls her eyes at him. "Are you _in love_ with me again?"

That's a trickier question – the answer is yes, but he's not sure if that's what she wants to hear, so he tells her, "Might be. That a problem?"

"Might be," she answers in kind, and his heart clenches a little. 'Might be' might as well be 'yes,' and that's not the answer he was hoping for. "It'd be messy, doin' this again..."

"I'm okay with messy."

She sighs, runs a hand into his hair and trails her fingernails lightly along his scalp. "I'm gettin' more and more okay with it, too," she confesses, and he likes that response a little more. "I just... I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe it's worth whatever time we can have right now."

"It is."

She chuckles, dryly, and slides her hand around to his chest, drawing little patterns there with her fingertip. "I don't know what the hell I'm doin' anymore. I just know this feels good. Bein' with you feels good, and I'm sick of feelin' bad all the time. And I'm sick of fightin' myself. Can we just... keep doin' what we've been doin'? See where it takes us? No promises, no expectations, no nothin', just..."

It's the closest she's gotten to giving in to this, and it may not be as absolute as he'd like, but right now, Travis will take anything, so he just wraps his arms a little more tightly around her and tells her, "Yeah. We can just see how it goes. We can do anything you want, junebug."

"Okay."

"Does this mean I can get a kiss goodnight?" he teases, smiling at her in the dark, and he feels her chuckle more than he hears, it before she presses her mouth against his gently. They linger there for a second, then she pulls back, and he steals one more quick peck just for good measure.

Charlotte settles down again, lets her hand rest flat over his heart and shifts until she finds a comfortable position against him. If she stays awake, he doesn't know – he's out in minutes.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_It's a love triangle, guys. It's never claimed to be anything else. If you're looking for straight up CharCoop, with minimal obstacles, absolutely zero chance of her ending up with someone else, and lots of fluffy happiness, there are plenty of those stories out there (I've even written a couple - and will again once the show comes back in the fall). But there's a reason this story is labeled as Charlotte, and not Charlotte and Cooper - it's not strictly about Charlotte and Cooper. They certainly are a major theme (there have only been 5 chapters so far where Cooper and their relationship **haven't** been mentioned), and there's a fifty-fifty chance she'll end up with him in the end, but there's a lot more going on here than CharCoop. Ultimately, it's a story about **Charlotte** and the choices she makes, and how she navigates having both Travis and Cooper in her life, and how she figures out what she really wants, and the decisions she makes in the meantime. It's about relationships, and choices, and murky emotional waters. Travis isn't going away any time soon, and neither is Cooper now that he's back. As Shonda says: If they're happy, there's no story. And there's a lot of story left to tell for these folks._

_Thanks to those who stick around and review. UP NEXT: Charlotte and Cooper finally talk some of their stuff out._


	29. Chapter 29

Charlotte takes a deep breath just before the elevator doors open, then strides purposefully across the Oceanside lobby.

"Charlotte, can I talk to you for sec-"

"Not now, Sam," she brushes him off, not even breaking stride. If this is gonna happen, she wants to get it over with, fast. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. The longer you wait, the more you hesitate, the stickier it gets and the more it hurts.

Cooper is exactly where she hopes he'll be – sitting at his desk, scowling at his computer – so she pushes his office door open, then lets it fall shut behind her. "You got somethin' you wanna say to me?"

When he looks up at her, his whole face darkens, mouth pulling into a frown, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back in his chair. "You're a liar."

Charlotte rolls her eyes. She's heard that tune before – on repeat, ad nauseum, for months. "You got somethin' _new_ you wanna say to me?"

"You used me."

"I _what?_"

"You used me," he repeats, slowly, like she's some kind of dumb child, and if she didn't know him so well, she'd miss the thin veneer of hurt beneath all the anger he's starting to radiate now. But she does know him that well, and she feels her guts start to twist anxiously. This is gonna be a doozy, she thinks. "You told me you didn't want to go back there. You told me your marriage and your divorce were too painful to even talk about, but apparently that was just a big fat lie, wasn't it? Because here you are, flaunting your husband all over the place-"

"Ex-husband," Charlotte corrects, because it seems important to make the distinction. "And I didn't use you or lie to you. It _was_ too painful, and I _didn't_ want to go back there. But then you and I went to hell in a handbasket over, among other things, me not bein' willin' to talk about my marriage. So I thought maybe I should do somethin' about that."

"Like your ex?"

"Screw you, Cooper," she bites. "I'm not sleepin' with him." Except in the literal sense, of course, she thinks to herself. "For your information, there was a lot of unresolved crap between me and Travis that wasn't gettin' any better by lettin' it lie. So, Sheldon suggested that I get some clos-"

"Oh, you'll talk to Sheldon about your marriage, but you wouldn't talk to me? Your boyfriend. The guy you're supposed to trust."

Jesus. Charlotte rolls her eyes, hard. "Sheldon wasn't callin' me a miserable bitch, or raggin' me all damned day about how much of a liar I was, or treatin' me like crap all the time. Sheldon asked – not demanded. And Sheldon listened. How was I supposed to trust you with this stuff when you say I can tell you anything and then stop speakin' to me as soon as I tell you something you don't like?"

"No, don't you turn this around on me, don't you make me the bad guy here. You kept your _marriage_ a secret. For two years, Charlotte. You almost married me! I mean, my God, Charlotte, were you even gonna tell me before we eloped to Vegas, or were you just gonna let me marry you anyway and – what? – Tell me later?"

Charlotte at least had the decency to look a little guilty about that one. "I had my reasons for keepin' it to myself," she tells him, and she knows what he's going to say even before he opens his mouth.

"Well, by all means, let's hear them. I'm sure they're great. I'm sure they totally justify you lying to me for two years-"

"I didn't _lie_ to you for two years, Cooper," she corrects. "I kept somethin' from you. It's not the same. I never, not once, said I'd never been married."

"A lie of omission is still a lie, Charlotte!" He pushes out of his chair and rounds his desk, and Charlotte straightens her back and holds her ground. "It's right there in the name. _Lie _of omission. You let me believe I was the only one you'd ever wanted to marry, and that you weren't good in relationships, and you needed hand-holding, and patience, and I was so fucking patient with you. With the cold shoulder, and the cheating, and the absolute refusal to open up, at all, about anything-"

"Oh, bull-"

"No, I'm not done! You let me believe you'd never really been loved before, that you-"

Charlotte's heard about enough of this, so she shakes her head and speaks up, "No, Cooper, _you _let you believe that. I never said _any_ of it. That was all you. Yes, I suck in relationships, and no, I don't like to open up, and some of that is just me, and some of that is what happened with Travis, but I never, ever told you that you were the first man I'd ever loved, or the only person who'd ever loved me. _You_ told _yourself_ that, so you could feel like the big man when you tried to handhold me through everything. And maybe I should've corrected you, but it was nice, okay? It was nice to have time, to be able to wade into all this at my own pace, because if you'd known? If you'd known that I was someone's wife once, that I was someone's partner, wouldn't you have wanted more from me? Wouldn't you have expected me to step up and-"

"You made me look like an idiot, Charlotte!"

"To who? Who thinks you're an idiot? Not me – not for this, anyway." He makes a face at her, but, well, sometimes she does think he's a goddamned idiot when it comes to the two of them, and she's not apologizing for that. "Not anyone else, as far as I know."

"You made me _feel_ like an idiot."

"Well, I'm sorry," she bites, and she means it, she does, and she hopes that comes across. It probably doesn't, not with the tension in the air, in her body, not with the way they're glaring daggers at each other. So she makes an effort to soften herself a bit, and says it again, "I'm sorry you felt like an idiot, but I had my reasons for keepin' my divorce to myself. Maybe it was wrong, but... I had my reasons."

"Reasons you won't tell me."

"I would've told you. If you hadn't been so rude, and mean, and... _hurtful_. I'd've told you after I told you about the marriage, but you were impossible. All you were interested in was punishin' me. Don't you blame me for shuttin' up; you screwed your own self outta that one."

Cooper doesn't seem to have anything to say to that. Just scowls hard at her for a second and then leans back to sit against his desk, waving one hand out between them. "Fine. Tell me now."

She sneers, and almost tells him no, absolutely not, but then she thinks what good would that do? Get them stuck in the same damned loop they're always in, makin' circles around each other over and over. Someone has to break the pattern and it might as well be her. So she takes a deep breath, moves to the sofa and sits down. "Fine. Sit."

"I'm fine here."

"Cooper."

"_I'm fine here,_" he repeats and she blows out a sigh, shakes her head and brushes imaginary lint off her skirt. Always has to be difficult, doesn't he?

Charlotte opens her mouth to start talking, but she doesn't even know where to begin. Does she start with her marriage? Her divorce? Her miscarriage? Being stared down in Cooper's office is a lot different from being coaxed into talking in bed with Sheldon, and she's sort of wishing she hadn't agreed to spilling her guts right here, right now. She'll just have to steel herself, get through it without crying. Being weak in front of Cooper isn't an option – not anymore, anyway.

"You gonna say something or just sit there?"

She can't help it, she snaps at him: "I miscarried!" Deep breath. Try again. "Six years ago, when I was married, I miscarried."

Cooper scoffs, and Charlotte's blood runs cold. "First baby was supposed to be with me, huh?"

"Shut up," she hisses. "You shut up. You don't get to use my losing a child against me in a fight, Cooper Freedman, you don't get to do that. That is reason number one that I didn't tell you more after I told you about my marriage. You were using anything you could get your hands on as ammo against me, and you do _not_ get to use this. This isn't yours." Her voice breaks, and she can feel the tears prick the corner of her eyes. Goddamnit. "I lost a _child_, Cooper. I lost a child, and a husband, and my whole life. I lost everything, so no, I didn't tell you when we started sleeping together, because we were casual, and all about the sex, and I don't talk about my marriage, or my miscarriage, or my divorce. Not to anyone, and certainly not to someone I'm only plannin' on a roll in the sheets with."

"And when we weren't casual anymore? You didn't say anything then, either, Charlotte. Or when Violet got pregnant, and we actually talked about kids – not a single word."

"That's because it's more complicated than just a miscarriage, Coop. Now, would you just shut up and let me talk?"

"Fine." He crosses his arms again, stares her down, but there's something in his eyes that makes her think he might be softening a little. She supposes leading with the miscarriage was smart, after all; he never can resist a victim.

"We had a real hard time with it. Both of us. And then we got in this fight, and long story short, he blamed it all on me. And then he cheated on me. With his best friend."

Cooper deflates, shakes his head, opens his mouth to no doubt berate her for leaving that tidbit out of their relationship for so long, but she doesn't give him the chance. "So I left him, and I divorced him. And I spent the next six years not knowing if he meant what he said, and not knowing if he loved her or just screwed her outta grief, and not knowing if I had been totally wrong about who he was from the beginning, because the man I fell in love with would _never_ do those things. And I didn't trust myself, or anyone else, when it came to love. And then I fell in love with you. Stupid, head-over-heels in love with you. And I just wanted to forget it all. Move on, and be with you, but it kept rearin' up and bitin' me in the ass all the time. And I have tried, okay? I've tried hard to make you and I work, and to get over all the mess that I had left in me after Travis, but it takes work. And it takes time. And in the end, it took talkin' to him again, and gettin' the answers I never got before. And I'm sorry things have been so rough for us, but I'm not sorry I kept it to myself when I did. I had my reasons."

"You should've told me your ex cheated on you with his best friend. How could you not tell me that when I was living with Violet?"

It's exactly the highlight she knew he'd pick out of all that, and she's ready for it. "Would it have made a difference?"

"Yes! Of course it would have, Charlotte. I just thought you were... jealous, or something – that you didn't get it. If I'd known, I'd have handled the whole thing differently."

"I know." She shrugs a little, looks him straight in the eye. "That's why I didn't tell you."

His brows draw together, and he looks utterly baffled. "Come again?"

"It shouldn't have mattered, Coop. What Travis did or didn't do shouldn't have made a damned bit of difference in you livin' with Violet. You knew how I felt about it, you knew it hurt me. I made it clear as day for you, over and over, and you never cared enough to change your ways. Why I felt that way shouldn't have mattered – it should have been enough that I felt that way. But me hurtin' is never enough of a reason for you to stop doin' somethin'. Cuz you never think I need you enough. But poor Violet – poor, grown, adult, got-herself-into-this-mess Violet – needed you."

"She did need me."

"No, Cooper, she didn't. She's a grown woman; she was barely pregnant when you moved in. Hell, Maya's standin' on her own more than Violet ever had to, and she's fifteen. Violet didn't need you, she made _you_ feel needed. And I didn't. Never mind that I've never needed you more than I did when you were movin' in with Violet. Never mind that my father had just died, and I was all alone, and you were walkin' away. I didn't get all crybaby about it, so you waltzed off to her. And I wasn't gonna make myself a victim to win you back. I wasn't gonna make myself a lost, hurt little girl so you could feel like a big man runnin' off to my rescue. And if it didn't matter – if it didn't make a difference, and it didn't change your ways – I didn't want to know that either. Because then you'd be even more selfish than I thought, and I was already stupid in love with you. Figured I was better off thinkin' you'd change if only you knew."

He stands there for a minute, watching her, not saying anything, and that actually surprises her a little. She figured he'd jump to his own defense, deny his martyr complex, make excuses for himself. Instead he pushes away from the desk and moves to sit next to her on his couch, collapsing into it and staring at the ceiling. "We're fucked up, aren't we?"

Charlotte can't help it; she laughs. "Yeah. Yeah, we are that." She looks sideways at him, then tells him, "I should've told you when we almost got married, but I just needed you so much. And I knew if we had a real wedding, I'd have to tell you, and if I told you, you might not say yes right away, and I needed you to marry me. I thought I did, anyway. I remembered bein' married, and what it was like to have that with someone, to be that for someone. It's deep. It's..." She's crying now, and it sucks, but she does her best to ignore it and wipes away the tears as the slip out. At least her voice isn't shaking _too _much. "I wanted you to be my husband. I wanted you to be everything Travis failed to be in the end, and I didn't want anything to keep you from bein' that. And then, once I didn't tell you... I just never knew how." He reaches up and brushes away a stray teardrop, and Charlotte jumps. She feels like he hasn't touched her in ages. And then she looks at him and realizes she's got him now.. _Needy always gets him,_ she thinks a little more bitterly than she maybe ought. "And then I did tell you. And you were a jerk about it."

"I was mad," he tells her, tentatively brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She lets him, 'cause hell, she's been dyin' for him to be anything but ambivalent to her for weeks now.

"And you had a right to be mad. You didn't have a right to be mean."

"I know."

"You were really hurtful."

"I know. I took everything out on you, and I'm sorry."

Something tight in her chest, something that's been knotted up there for months, loosens at his apology. She feels her shoulders go slack and exhales. "Thank you."

They sit there for a minute, in silence, and Charlotte finally gets those damnable tears to stop flowing. Now, she's just tired – they both are, from the looks of it, and it's a bit ridiculous because it's only nine in the morning, and she slept better last night than she has in months, despite her little dead-of-night conversation with Travis. Maybe it's just that they've been holdin' all this in for so long now, runnin' on regret and anger and fumes, and now they've let some of it out and spent themselves.

Eventually, Cooper reaches for her hand, threads their fingers. "I miss you. I didn't realize how much."

She turns her hand under his until they're palm to palm, squeezes and then lets go, disentangles their fingers and puts her own safely in her lap. "I've missed you too."

"I want you back."

It smacks her across the face like a two-by-four, and she's not sure why she's so dumbfounded by the statement, but she is. It's all she's wanted to hear from him for weeks, and he picks now of all times to come to his damned senses. Now, when she's told Travis maybe they can give it another go. Now, when she's finally starting to get her feet back under her again. She's been waiting for him to say this for weeks, but the first thing that comes out of her mouth is, "No."

"Because you're with him?"

"I'm not-" Well, she thinks, she might be. Now she doesn't know. "It's not about him. I don't know what I am with him right now, but I know how I feel about you. And how I feel about you is hurt. I love you – I do – but the things you said, and the things you did... I can't just ignore that stuff. I can't just take you back, no hesitation, when sometimes I look at you and all I hear is 'you're just a sex toy I found on the internet' or 'you're a trashy little girl trying to please her dead daddy, and I shouldn't have expected much from you.'"

He has the decency to look ashamed as he tells her, "I never should've said that stuff. I didn't mean it."

"Sure as hell sounded like you did."

"I _didn't_." He reaches for her hand again, but she pulls it away, crosses her arms tightly over her chest. "Charlotte, please. I didn't."

"Maybe. But it still smarts. And y'know what? I deserve better. The Cooper Freedman I fell for would never have said those things. He'd never have _thought_ those things. And until you can prove to me that you're that Cooper again... I'm not takin' you back."

"What can I do to prove it to you?"

"I don't know," she tells him, and it's the God's honest truth. "You'll have to figure that out. But in the meantime, can we at least be civil? Maybe even kind to each other? Because I am so sick of fightin' with you." Her voice breaks again, and damnit, she's gotta be PMSing because this is just ridiculous.

"Yeah – yes. Please. I'd like that; I'm sick of fighting you, too."

"Good." She nods, and then smooths her skirt over her lap and tells him, "I have patients. I have to go."

"Okay. Thank you for talking to me. I'm glad you finally told me everything."

She cracks a smiles then, finally. A little one, a bit half-assed, but a smile just the same. "Me too. Probably should've done it a lot sooner."

"Yeah. Might've been good."

A little chuckle, and then she's shaking her head. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you around."

She beats a hasty retreat out of there, shuts and locks her office door behind her, flips the blinds and punks herself down on her own couch. This is already shaping up to be the longest day ever, and it's not even half past nine.


	30. Chapter 30

An hour and a half ago, if you'd asked Travis, he'd have said he could definitely get used to Charlotte spending nights at his place. She'd come over after work without him even having to ask, and while she'd been quieter than usual, they'd had a perfectly fine evening. Takeout and TV – it had kind of become their thing lately. But now... now they're in bed – have been since quarter to midnight – and she can't seem to keep still for more than thirty seconds at a time, and its drivin' him up a damned wall.

She started curled up with him, ended up on her own side of the bed, then rolled back and then left again. She got up out of bed, she came back – he almost had enough time to fall asleep while she was gone. Almost. She squirms, she rolls, she shifts. Punches the pillow and settles back down. He's gettin' restless by proxy over here.

Finally, he reaches over, clasps a hand over her bicep and grumbles, "What?"

"Huh?"

"What the hell is keepin' you awake over there, and what can I do to help you out, so I can get some damned sleep?"

She goes still and quiet, and and her voice is a little frosty when she finally tells him, "I'm sorry. I'll go sleep on the sofa."

"No," he tells her. "You won't. You'll go toss and turn on the sofa."

"But you'll get to sleep."

He grunts a little, tugs her closer and wraps his arm over her torso. "Tell me anyway."

"It's nothin'."

"Lola," he sighs. "It's late, and I'm tired, but if I let you go sulk on the sofa all night and not sleep, I'll feel like an ass. So please just tell me what's wrong?"

She's quiet for long enough that he almost nods off, and then she tells him something that wakes him up completely. "Cooper wants me back."

Travis lifts his head off the pillow, peers at her in the dark. "I'm sorry?"

Charlotte sighs heavily. "That's why I didn't want to talk about it when you asked earlier. We talked today... about the divorce and all that. And he apologized for being an ass, and said he wants to get back together."

His gut twists sharply, and he thinks she can't possibly be serious. "And you're, what? Considering this?"

"Travis..."

"No," he mutters, rolling over and flicking the light on. "No, you can't be serious."

"Trav, I told him no. At least, for now."

"What the hell does that mean? 'At least for now'?"

"It means we have a lot of issues-"

"He treats you like crap."

"Travis-"

"No, don't 'Travis' me!" He sits up, because this isn't a lyin'-down type of conversation, and shifts until he can look at her. She's pushing herself up too, until her back is resting against the headboard. "He treated you like crap – I know because I had to hear about it. And then last night you were all 'maybe we can see where this goes.' Now you're just takin' him back because he-"

"Travis, I told him no," she interrupts.

"For now," he adds. "You told him no for now."

"Yeah, no for now. No, until he proves to me-"

"Y'know what? I don't care what your conditions are, Lola. I care that you're even considerin' this with him."

"Travis, you know how I feel about him."

"And you know how I feel about _you,_" he counters. "You were the love of my life, and I fucked it all up, and now we have this second chance, and I don't want you blowin' it on some guy who calls you names and makes you cry."

"You blamed a miscarriage on me and made me a wreck," she points out, and Travis scowls down at the sheets and lets that one land.

Then he tells her, "And you didn't take me back."

"But I should've. Because when you love someone, you forgive their mistakes."

"No. Uh-uh." He shakes his head, balls a fist in the sheets in frustration. "You don't get to walk out on us again, Lola."

She gapes at him, then scoffs and shakes her head. "Walk out on us again? What happened to 'no pressure, no expectations, whatever I need,' Travis?"

"You can have all that, as long as what you need isn't an out."

She shuts her eyes, scrubs her hands over her face, then looks at him through her fingers for a second before finally saying, "I'm here with you, right now. Because I want to be here. If I wanted to be at Cooper's, I could be, but I'm not, am I? But, Travis, you're leavin' in a few weeks, and this isn't permanent. You know that; we both know that. We're takin' the time we've got, right?" He's never regretted sayin' that more than he does right now, but she has a point. He's supposed to go back – doesn't mean he has to, and maybe he shouldn't, but he said he would. And right now, he's pretty sure she's too on the fence for him to push her by sayin' he won't, so he just nods. "So just... be with me. For now. Okay? Don't worry about him; I'm here with you right now."

"Tell me you want this," he tells her, even though she pretty much just did. He wants to hear it again, wants to hear it the way he wants it to sound. "Tell me you want us."

Charlotte shifts, scoots closer and cups his jaw in her hands, looks him straight in the eye. "I don't know what the hell I want. But I know that fightin' with you makes my stomach hurt, and that all night I've been dyin' to kiss you. I don't know if I can do 'us,' but I do want you. Okay?"

It's not enough, not really, but it's something, so Travis nods, and wraps his hands around her wrists, then draws them up until he's reeled her in close enough to steal a kiss from her. It's a little rough, a little possessive, but so be it. That's how he's feelin' right now. When it's over, he tells her, "Next time you wanna kiss me, just do it. That's part of the whole seein'-where-this-goes thing."

Charlotte nods, presses her lips to his again, briefly, then pulls away. "Fine. Now can we turn out the lights and stop talkin' about this? I'm so sick of relationship drama I could spit; I really don't need it comin' from two places."

"Yeah," he mutters, reaching to turn off the light. They settle back down to the bed, her body a few inches from his on the mattress. It's too much damned distance; he feels like she's slipping away. So he drapes an arm over her belly, scoots down until he can press his nose against her shoulder and shuts his eyes. She lays still this time, but he lays awake for a long time regardless. He's not lettin' this happen. Cooper Freedman wants to make a play for his girl, he can go right ahead. Just means Travis will have to step it up and try even harder to keep her. He's not losing her again.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: **_The very beginning of this chapter is a bit NSFW. Just a warning. Also, I like to call this the "sometimes Travis is an idiot" chapter. _

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* * *

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Charlotte wakes to a body spooned snugly against hers, wet kisses against the curve of her neck and a warm hand on her breasts. The scratch of stubble against sensitive skin, the slide of his tongue up, up, behind her ear, and her whole body is thrumming with pleasure. He's been at this a while, she thinks. A thumb swirls over a nipple that's already hard as his mouth sucks at her skin, and Charlotte arches her back a little and moans, her hips grinding back into the body behind her.

"Mornin'," he rumbles into her ear, and Charlotte thinks _Travis_, and rolls onto her back. His mouth is on hers immediately, eager, deep kisses, and before she knows it, she has her fingers tangled in his hair as he mouths his way down her neck, slides her shirt (his, really) up her belly, and this really isn't how she planned on starting her morning, but God, she can't say she doesn't want it. She hasn't had sex with anyone but herself in weeks, and it just feels so _good_... He replaces his hands with his mouth, licks and sucks at her breasts, and she's moanin' somethin' fierce and tugging his shirt up over his head. Shucks her own as well, and sucks in a breath as his fingertips trail down her belly, slip underneath her panties and then all semblance of thought flies out the window.

Six years apart and he still knows how to touch her just so. Their arms bump as she works her hand between them, down into his boxers, and soon they're kissing and kissing and touching and stroking, and he sneaks a finger inside her, then two, and she tightens her hand around him and works it faster.

It doesn't take long for either of them, and just as Charlotte feels every hair stand on end, just before she tips over the edge, she moans his name and hears him growl, "That's it, Lola, come for me," right into her ear. One last tug of her hand and he's gone too.

A minute later, they're both catching their breath, bodies a little sweaty, his mouth working lazily against her throat, hand still cupped between her legs. Well, that was... mmm. Unexpected, but not a bad way to start the day.

"What time is it?" she rasps, and he shrugs his shoulder, nips at hers.

"Mornin'. Seven-ish."

"Ish, huh?"

"Mmhmm."

"Can we get a little more specific?"

He grunts, rubs his hand against her one more time, then rolls to look at the clock. "Seven twenty-eight."

"Shit," Charlotte groans. She runs her hand up into her hair, ignores the fact that her fingers are a little damp with somethin' sexy that ain't hers. No matter, because, "I'm gonna have to shower here, head straight to work – I have a meeting, can't be late."

She starts to sit up, but he tugs her back and kisses her into the mattress again. She manages half of his name, pushes at his shoulder a little, and after another five solid seconds, he flops over onto his back and shuts his eyes. "'Kay. Go. Shower."

Charlotte rolls her eyes and scoots out of bed, grabbing her clothes and padding to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. First order of business is brushing her teeth, and she stands in front of the mirror and looks herself over as she works up a mouthful of minty froth. She's still a little flushed, and her hair's a bit of a mess. There's a hickey blooming on the curve of her breast, and – goddamnit – one – no, two – she pulls her hair back and turns, frowning – make that three along her neck. Oh, he's gonna get a talking-to when she's done in the shower, she thinks, spitting into the sink and rinsing her toothbrush before stepping into his postage-stamp sized shower. Bastard needs to remember not to leave so many marks.

There's barely enough room for her to turn around in the shower, and for just a split second, she wonders how the hell he manages in here. But then she's tipping her head under the water, running her hands through her hair and brushing against a tender spot on her neck. She's irritated all over again as she reaches for the shampoo. She doesn't mind so much that he left a mark on her breast – nobody will see that, but the hickeys on her neck are gonna be obvious as hell, and she doesn't need everyone at work to see 'em and think-

Charlotte freezes, fingers in her hair, head full of lather.

Work.

Cooper.

She hears Travis again in her head – "come for _me_" – and her belly goes cold, then hot, and she feels her fingers start to shake with fury.

That son of a bitch.

That rotten, underhanded, disrespectful son of a bitch.

Charlotte steps out of the shower, tugging a towel around herself and wrenching the bathroom door open. There's soap dripping down her back and her feet slap wetly on the hardwood, but she doesn't give a good goddamn.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" she questions as she storms back into the bedroom.

Travis – who had been halfway to a doze already – lifts his head up and frowns at her. "Huh?"

"You want to have sex with me, Travis Evans, you do it because you want me, not because you don't want someone else to have me."

He frowns, then, "We didn't have-"

"Shut up!" Her pulse is pounding, blood rushing hot under her skin. There's a thin line of suds that's managed to make its way down the back of her leg, and she wipes of off violently against her other shin. "Shut your goddamn mouth, Travis, don't you play semantics with me. You don't _ever_ take me because you're pissed – In fact, you don't ever _take_ me, period. Six years – we haven't been intimate in _six years_, Travis – we haven't gone there yet, we're just 'seein' where things go,' right? And you wake me up with a handjob? Because of Cooper? You think I want the first time we get close to sex after all this time to be because of someone else?"

He opens his mouth and she shoots up a hand to hold him off. "NO. No. I am not done. You do not just wake a girl up with your hands all up in her business – certainly not when you're not even sleepin' together yet. You don't do that, Travis. It's rude. It's rude, and it's disrespectful, and it's manipulative. I may want you somethin' fierce, but I deserve a goddamned choice in when and how somethin' like that happens, and you didn't give it to me."

He's starting to look apologetic now, and guilty, and that's good. Good. He ought to. But when he tries to speak again, she cuts him off.

"And don't you ever _use me_ to make a point! If I want to be pissed on, there's a whole slew of fetish clubs I could drop by, okay? I don't need to be marked like territory. I spent the night here, with you, in your bed, and _that_ should've been all you goddamn needed to soothe your poor, fragile ego. Now, I'm gonna go finish my shower, and you're not gonna talk to me – not now, not when I get out, not for the rest of the goddamned day – not until I say so, you hear me? You leave me the hell alone, and don't you _ever_ do somethin' like this to me again!"

She turns on her heel and marches across the hall again, and he's callin' out to her and rollin' out of bed, but she's quicker than he is and she slams the bathroom door, locking it for good measure. She'll deal with him when she's good and ready and not a second sooner. She rinses the shampoo out of her hair, runs a bar of soap over her body. Doesn't even bother with conditioner, just cranks the water off and dries herself.

She yanks on her clothes, pops a button on her blouse and swears. At least it's at the bottom, she thinks, tucking it into her skirt, and shoving wet hair out of her face as she reaches for the door.

He's right there waiting for her when she opens it – big surprise – and looking contrite as hell. "Lola, I'm-"

"No," she cuts him off, pushing past him toward the bedroom. "Don't you 'Lola' me."

"I'm-"

"What did I say about you not talkin' to me right now?" she questions, scooping up her purse, and her phone, and elbowing her way past him when he tries to step between her and the bedroom door.

"I'm sorry!" he manages to get out as she stomps toward the steps and bends for her shoes.

"You're damn right you are." Left foot in, then right, and he's caught up to her again, wraps his hand around her elbow.

"Lola-" She jerks her arm away.

"Not now, Travis." She takes the stairs, fast, and he's right on her heels, presses his palms to the door over her head just as she pulls it open. It slams shut again and she blows out a breath.

"Can we just talk about this, please?" he asks – damn near begs, from the sound of his voice, and she guesses she's scared him, which is good. He oughta be scared. The last thing Charlotte King appreciates in a man is juvenile, possessive crap, and he's just dumped a whole load on her. And in a way that, quite frankly, makes her heart hurt. She's got half a mind to stop talkin' to him for good (deep down, she knows she won't, but it's a satisfying thought right now regardless).

She turns the knob and yanks the door open again – and only manages about an inch before he's pushed it back shut. Unbelievable. "Let go of the goddamned door, Travis."

"Not until you talk to me."

"Travis Evans, don't you go diggin' yourself a hole you can't get out of," she warns, looking over her shoulder at him. Oh yeah, definitely worried. Serves him right for goin' all caveman on her. "You ever want to talk about this _later, _I suggest you let go of the door. Now."

He looks at her for a full thirty seconds, then sighs and drops his hands, scrubs one over the bottom of his face. Charlotte yanks the door open.

"Lola-"

"Save it!" she calls back, slamming the door behind her as she leaves and stalks to her car.

Turns out she was wrong – that was a damned shitty way to start a morning.


	32. Chapter 32

She's sitting at her desk, scowling over her schedule, when Cooper pokes his head into her office. Great. Just what she needs. She's still in a cranky ass mood from this morning, and it doesn't help any that her good concealer is at home, so she can't even cover the damned hickeys on her neck . Which means she has to keep her hair down to hide the marks (though thankfully, they aren't _too _dark), instead of putting it up to hide the fact that she had to let it air dry and it's not as sleek as she usually likes it. She spilled coffee on the clean shirt she'd put on when she got to the hospital, so she's back in the shirt she wore yesterday, and she managed to double book herself for a half hour this afternoon. The last thing she needs right now is Cooper sniffing around and giving her trouble.

"Hey," he greets, all casual and kind, and she reminds herself that they've made their peace now, and she should try not to bite his head off just because she's in a foul mood. They did agree to be friendly, after all. And hell, after the stunt Travis pulled this morning, Cooper's lookin' pretty good.

So she forces a smile and says, "Hello."

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Charlotte lets out a slow, controlled breath and nods. "I guess. Yeah."

He's already two steps in the door, but he hesitates, frowns a little. "Bad time?"

"Bad morning," she tells him, trying to subtly brush her hair in front of her shoulder to ensure her neck is hidden. "But it's not your problem. What's up?"

"O-kay..." Crap. She didn't mean it like that, she thinks, sighing. He makes his way to her desk, stands in front of her, hands clasped. "I just wanted to apologize. For yesterday. What I said, after you told me about your miscarriage was, um..." He grimaces a little. "I was a jerk. I was out of line; I never should've said what I did. It was petty, and stupid, and... I'm just sorry."

Well. That was unexpected. Unexpected, but definitely appreciated. Her smile is a little more genuine when she says, "Thank you."

"Can you forgive me?"

"Yeah. Of course." It was insensitive and a bit on the atrocious side, to be honest, but in the long run, it's not nearly the most hurtful thing he's thrown at her. And, frankly, after the shit show this morning, his comment is the least of her troubles. "Water under the bridge."

He lets out a breath she hadn't realized he was holding and smiles at her – a real, genuine Cooper Freedman smile. They always made her heart flop a little, and this one is no different. "Thank you. I probably don't deserve that, but-"

"You do," she tells him, smiling back. "Forgiveness is part of lovin' someone. Learned that from you." His smile softens then, and hers does too, and for a second they just look at each other. And then she tells him, "And for what's it's worth, I forgive you for all of it. The fight, the stuff you said... everything. Doesn't mean that things are all sunshine and puppies, or that I'm ready to get back together just yet, but... I forgive you."

"I really didn't mean the things I said."

"You meant some of 'em." She knows that much is true. She knows that blowout fights don't come out of nowhere, and at least some of what he said was truth. Or his version of truth, anyway.

Still, she thinks she believes him when he tells her, "Not the nasty ones. Not the really bad ones."

She nods a little, slowly. "That's good to hear. We can talk about the other stuff later – another time, not today. It's not a good day."

He looks at her for a second, narrows his eyes and studies her like he's lookin' for clues. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'll be fine," she tells him. "Don't worry about me."

"Okay. If you want to talk about-"

"Cooper," she cuts him off, shaking her head.

"Right. Well, I guess I should let you get back to... whatever it was you were doing."

She nods, and he leaves, and it takes her a minute to notice that he didn't comment on the fact that she's wearin' the same clothes two days in a row, or that her hair's not all it oughta be. She's never known Cooper to keep his mouth shut when he has an excuse to heckle her; looks like he's workin' on being a gentleman after all.

**.:.**

She's between patients when Violet pokes her head in. "Hey there, stranger."

Charlotte looks up, doesn't really manage a smile. "Hey."

"I heard you and Cooper finally worked some things out."

Charlotte freezes for a second, then chuckles darkly. "Your best friend has a big mouth, you know that?"

"Oh, come on, Charlotte, it's me," Violet excuses, stepping into the office and perching herself on the arm of the sofa. "You had to know he'd tell me."

"Of course I did." Charlotte sets her pen down, leans back in her chair. "He still has a big mouth."

Violet chuckles, and makes this I-suppose-you're-right kind of face. "Well, you can take comfort in the fact that he wouldn't give me details. He said if I wanted the gossip, I had to ask you."

Great. She lifts one brow slowly. "So I can assume you're here to ask?"

"Nah. I figure you won't tell me anything without a martini in hand, anyway."

Charlotte smirks at that. "You figured right."

"But can I ask you something – unrelated? Well, sort of related. I was just kinda wondering - y'know -"

"Violet," Charlotte interrupts, putting out of her stuttering misery. "Shoot."

"Why didn't you just tell me Travis was your ex? I mean, why lie about it?"

"Because you have a big mouth, too," Charlotte tells her, leveling her with a gaze. "And if spillin' the beans hadn't gotten Cooper and me past that god-awful false civility we were stuck in, we'd be havin' words about that big mouth of yours right now."

"Well, technically, it was Sheldon-"

"Oh, he's already been scolded," Charlotte assures, just before there's a knock on her doorframe. "Come in," she calls, and in walks a delivery boy with an armful of bright and colorful tulips. Charlotte's belly tightens at the sight – she knows exactly where they came from.

"Charlotte King?" he asks, and Charlotte points at Violet.

"Give 'em to her."

Violet frowns. "I'm not-"

"Just give 'em to her," Charlotte tells the delivery guy, who hands the vase over to Violet. She takes it awkwardly, and then he looks at Charlotte.

"Ma'am, they need to be signed for..."

Charlotte sighs, waves him over. "Fine, fine. C'mere. And you might as well bring me the card while you're at it, because Lord knows I don't want her readin' that."

Violet snorts a laugh as Charlotte signs off on the delivery, then shoos the guy out. As soon as she's gone, Charlotte catches the look Violet is giving her. Raised brows, all questioning and curious.

"Did I miss something?" Violet asks, "Because normally flowers are a good thing."

"These aren't romantic flowers, they're apology flowers," she explains, opening the little envelope and pulling out the card. _Junebug, Please forgive me. Love, Travis. _Right. That's not happening today. Eventually, most likely (because now that she's not quite so seething mad, she gets it, just a little – it's not like it's the first time he's woken her up with sex, but they were _married _then, and they're not now, and his reasons were all wrong, and selfish, and stupid, and hey look – now she's seething mad again), but not today.

"From Cooper?"

"Travis."

"What'd he do?"

"Last night, I told him Cooper wants me back. This morning he was a possessive ass. Did somethin' spectacularly stupid, and selfish, and out of line, and now I'm not speakin' to him."

"At least he knows how to apologize," Violet reasons, adjusting her hold on the vase of flowers. "Although, you'd think he'd send roses."

Charlotte shakes her head. "I hate roses. They're trite; everyone sends roses. Tulips are my favorite."

"Ah. Well, then, score one for Travis."

"Oh, he's got a long way to go before he scores points," Charlotte assures. "I'm still a bit too mad for apologies to be effective."

"Wow. That bad, huh?"

"Oh, you don't even know." Charlotte sighs, drags her fingers through her hair. Violet's smirking at her, and it only takes a second to realize why – pulling her hand through her hair put her neck in plain view. She tugs her hair back over her shoulder and huffs. "Possessive ass," she tells her again. "He's in the doghouse for days at this rate."

"For a few hickeys?"

"For markin' his territory in spectacularly bad fashion," she explains. "There's more to it than a few love bites, but I do _not_ want to talk about it."

"Alright... So I'm guessing you'll be home tonight, then?"

"Definitely," Charlotte tells her. "I'm thinkin' _Thelma and Louise_ and a glut of martinis. You in?"

Violet grins, and laughs. "Absolutely."

"Good. It's date. A man-free, estrogen-only date. Now take those damned flowers to the kitchen or somethin', so I don't have to look at 'em."

"If I bring them to the kitchen, everyone's gonna ask about them," Violet points out, and Charlotte grimaces. That's the last thing she needs.

"Fine. Leave 'em." She sighs, looks the blooms over again. "They _are_ awfully pretty."

Violet leaves the flowers on the table in front of the sofa and Charlotte only has a few minutes to frown over them before she gets paged by the front desk. Her 3:00 is here. Good. A distraction is exactly what she needs right now.


	33. Chapter 33

Martinis can make a girl do a lot of things. Dance on tables. Think she sounds good singin' karaoke. Sleep with the wrong guy. And, occasionally, open up about things she swore she wouldn't talk about. Which is probably why Charlotte finds herself scowling at the empty glass of martini number three, and announcing, "So my ex-husband woke me up today with his hand under my shirt. And then down my pants."

She hazards a glance at Violet and finds her lookin' torn between surprised and amused. "Not dating, huh?"

"Oh, we're not," Charlotte tells her. "We're... undefined at the moment. Hadn't gotten past a few kisses until today."

"Oh." Violet's face gets more serious. "And he just... while you were sleeping?"

"Yep," Charlotte drawls.

"That's... that's not good."

"No. No, it's not good. And that forest of hickeys on my neck? That's not good either. That is, apparently, Travis Evans in a jealous snit." She toys with the garnish in her glass, and enjoys the way her world feels a little swirly around the edges. She's been broody all day, and it's been drivin' her nuts, but the alcohol is beginning to take the edge off a bit.

"Does he get jealous often?" Violet asks carefully.

"I wouldn't know," Charlotte sighs. "Never really gave him much of a reason to when we were married. And Cooper wasn't around to horn in on what Travis apparently considers his territory until yesterday. But it seems he has a possessive streak a mile wide, and apparently thinks gettin' all handsy when I'm asleep is acceptable behavior."

"It's not," Violet says, and Charlotte makes a face in agreement and reaches for the martini fixings on the table. Four sounds like a nice even number, right? "It's sexual assault."

She pauses then, and turns to Violet. Blinks a little. "I don't know if I'd go that far."

"Did he touch you without your express permission?"

"Yes."

"Then, it's assault. And if you want to talk about it..."

Charlotte picks up the gin and pours. "Violet, I like ya, but I don't need a therapist right now. Not unless its name is Dr. Gin Martini."

"I'm not talking to you as a therapist, I'm talking to you as a friend. And a victim."

That gets Charlotte's attention, and she freezes, looks at Violet. "What?"

Violet takes a breath and tells her, "I was raped, in college."

Well, that's an admission that'll sober you up. Charlotte has a feeling this is about to get a lot heavier than she'd planned. There's an icy ball of dread forming in the pit of her stomach, and she swallows hard. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to. Trust me, I'm good with not talkin', if this is somethin' that's better buried. We can just sit here and drink and put in another movie, and not talk about any of it."

"No, I want to talk about it – about your stuff, anyway," Violet assures, handing over her empty glass (number two), before Charlotte returns to finishing her own drink. "I didn't talk much about what happened to me, for a long time. I still don't really, but... The thing with sexual assault... Are you listening?"

"Yeah," Charlotte assures her, although she's suddenly wishin' she could get out of this conversation. "I'm listenin', I'm just... fixin' more drinks while I do."

"Okay. The thing is, when something like this happens, it's better not to bury it. And people sometimes try to tell you how you should feel, or how you should hurt, or that you should move on and get over it. Sometimes even _you _think that." Charlotte takes a deep swig of her martini, then starts on Violet's. "But it's personal. It's always personal, and what matters is how _you _feel. If you feel violated, then he violated you. And then it's assault, and it's not okay."

"But that's the thing – I'm not sure I do feel violated. I know I didn't when it was happenin'," Charlotte explains. "Not when I woke up, not when I reciprocated – and, boy, did I reciprocate – not even right after. I didn't get pissed until I realized it wasn't really about me. My problem isn't really so much with what he did as the reason he did it." She sighs, pours. "It's not like he forced me into anything – I coulda stopped him anytime. I know Travis, and let me tell you, one breath of 'no,' and he'd have stopped right away. But I didn't want to say no. I wanted Travis – I want Travis. I can't tell you the number of middle-of-the-night, hot, sweaty dreams I've had about that man since he's been around again. Believe me, wantin' isn't the problem here. So physically? I don't feel violated. But _emotionally... _ He did what he did because of Cooper. Because he was pissed I might be gettin' back with Cooper, and I guess he thought early mornin' orgasms would sway my mind or somethin'."

"Looks like maybe they did, just not in the way he wanted," Violet points out quietly, and Charlotte just looks at her for a second.

"Maybe. I don't know. And I hate that I don't know, because I feel like as a woman – a strong woman – I should know. This kind of crap should be a deal-breaker."

"But?"

"But." She adds a fresh garnish, then passes Violet's drink back to her, snags her own off the table and sinks back into the couch cushions again. The room spins just a little at the sudden movement, but it settles back again pretty fast. "This conversation is between us?"

"Absolutely."

"You swear you won't tell Cooper?"

"I promise."

"You swear on Lucas?"

"Okay, I'm not gonna swear on my kid," Violet tells her, and Charlotte supposes that's fair. "Because I'm pretty sure that would bring down a scary amount of karmic retribution that I really don't need when I'm about to fight for custody-"

"And we're going to talk about that in a minute," Charlotte interjects, because she thinks Violet's plan to go for Lucas is ballsy, and great, and terrible all at once. And it definitely warrants a conversation. (And selfishly, she wants to know if she's about to be sharin' her house – Violet's house, she reminds herself, not hers – with a screamin' infant).

"Yes, but first we're going to finish this. This is important. And I don't swear on Lucas, but I'll swear on Cooper. How about that?"

Charlotte weighs, considers, figures swearin' on the one person Violet seems to count on most is a pretty safe bet, and nods. "Fine. You can swear on Cooper."

"Okay, I swear on Cooper that I won't tell Cooper – or anyone else – anything you say tonight."

Charlotte smirks at the irony, then shakes her head. "Okay. The thing is... There are feelings that I have for Travis that I didn't think I had anymore. I'd moved past my marriage as much as I could, and I was movin' on. I was happy with Cooper. I love Cooper. But then Travis was back, bein' his charmin' self, all supportive and wonderful, and exactly what I needed when I needed it. And things just got dredged up again, and now..."

"You love him."

"No." After a second she adds, "I don't know."

"You guys have a connection, you have a history. It's only natural for there to be some residual feelings that come up – both good and bad – when you spend time together. That's natural for divorced couples."

Charlotte lifts a brow. "What did I say about shrinkin' me? I don't want a shrink right now, I want a friend. And my best friend is unavailable, so you'll have to do."

"Wow. I feel special," Violet mutters and Charlotte sighs.

"That's not what I meant. Look, I – I'm a little tipsy, okay? Things are just sorta tumblin' outta my mouth right now."

"Like you being in love with your ex?"

"No. I didn't say that – _you _said that. I don't want to use that word, not about Travis. Because lovin' Travis Evans is a hell of a thing, and I just can't go there right now. There's way too much crap to wade through, we are not the same people we were, and he's leavin' in six weeks anyway. We were just supposed to be spendin' some time, seein' where things went, y'know? Because friends wasn't workin' – we were havin' too much trouble keepin' our hands off each other. But he's supposed to be the nice guy, the safe guy. Charming Travis Evans, with his guitar, and his kindness and his... his..." Gin really does a number on the brain after a while, Charlotte thinks, losing her focus for a second before getting back on track. "He's not supposed to be the 'I'm gonna make you come to prove I can' guy. That's not Travis."

"Well, you said yourself – you're not the people you were. And he never had a reason to show this side of himself before." Violet takes a sip of her drink, then adds. "Maybe that _is_ Travis."

"I like to think I know the man I married." Because otherwise, God, what the hell is she doin'? Gettin' fooled twice by the same guy? She should know better than that. "And he's still so much himself. My life is completely different from when we were married, and his is... pretty much the same. It's bizarre. Bein' with him is like steppin' into a time machine. And I wanted it to be good. If we were gonna go there again, I wanted it to be... I've spent the whole day pissed at him for the audacity of what he did, but there's this part of me that's tryin' to justify it. Keeps thinkin' that it must be like that for him too, right? Like fallin' back into old habits. And if that's the case, him wakin' me up with kisses and a little heavy petting is nothin' new. He did it when we were married, and I didn't mind then."

"But you're not married anymore."

"Exactly. But from the way he reacted last night to the idea of me and Cooper gettin' back together, I'm not so sure Travis remembers that."

"Well, look." Violet sets her drink on the table, and turns to face Charlotte. "I don't know what your relationship is like now, but I know that you're chugging martinis like California's about to run out of gin, and you've been out of sorts all day. So clearly, what he did isn't okay with you."

"No, it's not okay. It's definitely not okay, but I don't think it's 'not okay' for the reasons that maybe it oughta be. I don't feel assaulted. I feel hurt. He made it about someone else, and – You _swear_ none of this is leavin' this room?"

Violet shakes her head, smiles. "Yes, Charlotte, I swear. You don't open up often, and I'm not-"

"I'm not openin' up," Charlotte insists, because she has her pride, damnit. "I'm venting. And explainin'. And... Crap." She deflates a little, because yeah, she's definitely opening up, and to Violet Turner of all people. But this has been stewin' in her all day, and if she doesn't let some of it out, she's gonna go crazy talkin' herself in circles in her own head.

"He made it about Cooper, and that upset you," Violet coaxes, and Charlotte's just grateful she's steerin' them back on track and not makin' a big deal about the whole thing. The last thing she wants is a spotlight on her weaknesses right now. So fine, fine, she'll talk, they'll talk.

"Travis was only the second guy I was ever with – first, if you ask him, because he doesn't believe the first one counted."

Violet wrinkles her brow, makes a face. "What? What does that even mean?"

"It means if you don't last more than three minutes, and there aren't mutual orgasms, it's not sex, according to Travis Evans. And my first time was rather lackluster, so it didn't count."

Violet snorts. "That's... kind of ridiculous. Sex is sex. If the parts are interlocking, that's pretty much all the definition you need."

"Yeah. Well. Tell that to Travis. But my point is... I learned sex with Travis – good sex. Intimate sex. And there's somethin' about him. About bein' with him, that's... comforting. He's kind of like a security blanket, y'know? Just... nice. And I was hurtin' over Cooper, and wantin' somethin' to make it better, and there were so many times where I wanted to just say screw it all, and drag him into bed. Because I knew if we slept together, it'd be good, and it'd be intimate, and he'd make me feel less crappy. And we didn't have sex today, not really, it was just, y'know, mutual handjobs, but... We got intimate. And it wasn't about bein' with me. It was about me bein' with someone else, and him bein' possessive and insecure. So now I feel like shit, and that's not the way I wanted to feel after doin' somethin' like that with Travis."

Violet nods, and Charlotte drinks, and they sit there in silence for a minute. Charlotte's not sure how she feels about this whole talkin' thing. It never really makes her feel much better, just more raw, and more exposed. At least Violet's not bein' all preachy or anything this time. Just listening. And she can handle listening, listening is okay. Listenin' when she's a bit gin-soaked and rambling, like she is now, is almost dandy.

Finally, Violet breaks the silence. "He let you down."

"Yeah," Charlotte scoffs, lifting her drink again and sipping. "He sure did. And I know he never meant for it to be somethin' I didn't want, or somethin' that would upset me. I know him well enough to know that. He's all about makin' sure I get what I want – it keeps him in my good graces. But if he thought surprisin' me with orgasms was gonna keep him in my good graces, he's got another thing comin'. You shoulda seen his face when I was lettin' him have it, and after that, when I was leavin'. I scared the crap outta that man. He was trippin' over himself to apologize."

"At least he knew he was wrong," Violet points out. "A lot of guys in his situation put all on the blame on the woman. They say she's just overreacting, that they didn't do anything wrong, and she shouldn't be mad. It sounds like he at least got the message that what he did was really not okay."

"Yeah. Well. I don't get why he thinks that kind of behavior might be okay in the first place. I mean, how can a guy be so thick-headed?" She blows out a breath, lifts her martini. "And I don't get why I'm so hung up on it. Spent the whole damn day thinkin' about it, and now I'm spendin' all night drinkin' over it."

"Because he violated you – if not your body, at least your trust. And I don't know how your marriage ended, but I'm going to guess it involved a violation of trust."

Charlotte looks up from her half-empty glass, frowns at Violet. She really doesn't want to talk about her divorce tonight. "Yeah," she says, guardedly.

"So, here you are. Working things out, spending time together, seeing where things go. And he does this thing, that hurts you, and violates your trust again – and your body. You may not feel that way, but... he took advantage of you, Charlotte. He took advantage of your trust. You spent the night, clearly in his bed. You may... have a wide range of sexual parters," Violet says carefully, and Charlotte's not sure whether she should laugh or roll her eyes at the attempt to be non-judgmental about her sexual experience. "But you don't _sleep_ with a lot of people. Sleep is intimate. Sleep is vulnerable. You slept with him, and he took advantage of that. Whether he meant it to hurt you or not, it did."

"And yet, there's a part of me that wants to sweep it all away," Charlotte grumbles, hatin' that she feels this way. She swallows another mouthful of gin, hopes it'll force down some of this god-awful feelin' in her gut. "It's like the part of me that wants to just fall back into Cooper's arms, hurt feelings be damned."

"Can I ask you a question?"

Charlotte raises her brows. "You even have to ask that at this point in the conversation?"

"Why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?"

"Just get back together with Cooper? I mean, let's face it, you guys are kind of meant for each other, in a weird, dysfunctional way."

"This conversation stays between us?"

"_Yes_," Violet tells her, shaking her head. "For the third time, Charlotte, yes. This is between us. For God's sake, trust a little once in a while."

"Usually trustin' people gets me crapped on, Violet, and you and Cooper have the two biggest, most meddlin' mouths I know, so-"

Violet holds up her hands. "Okay, fine. Fine. I'm sorry." Lowers, them and reaches for her drink again. "Yes, Charlotte, it's between us. Please continue."

Charlotte makes a face at that false civility, and then quietly admits, "Travis. If Cooper had asked me a week sooner, he'd have had me back, no questions. It was all I wanted. I couldn't see past lovin' him. But then things started happenin' a bit more with Travis, and now... I don't know. He was treatin' me so well up until today, I started thinkin' maybe I could get that back. And then, bam – within twenty-four hours I go from tellin' Travis maybe we can see about givin' it another shot, to Cooper sayin' he wants me back – now of all times – and then Travis bein' an ass." She downs the rest of her martini, and has a little bit of trouble getting it onto the coffee table. She thinks she may actually qualify as 'good and drunk' now. "Plus, I'm still smartin' a bit from the things he said when we broke up. He was just.. _nasty_. Did he tell you he called me a sex toy? Because he did, he called me a sex toy he found on the internet. And a freak with no friends. And brought up my dead father. And that was just in the last argument we had."

"Wow." Violet actually looks a little surprised at that, brows raised, eyes a little wide. Guess Cooper kept those tidbits to himself. "That's... wow. No wonder he told me he didn't feel like rehashing all the specifics."

"Yeah. Well. That's what he said. And I know it was months ago, but... Damnit, I trusted him, too. I trusted Cooper – I might've kept things from him, but I trusted him – and then he went and said all that stuff, and... It just sucks." It's not the most astute way to end a sentence, she knows that, but well... gin. Gin is good. Gin simplifies things – or ought to, anyway – and now she's boiled it all down to '_this sucks_' and she's thinkin' about addin' '_screw men_' (though obviously not literally) to the list of current life philosophies. "And it hurts. Still. The wounds are still fresh. So here I am, mopin' – mopin' and drunk – two things I do not need to be. And talkin' your ear off about stuff that's not really any of your business, is it?"

Violet smiles then, and shrugs. "Well. We're friends, right? At the very least we're roommates."

"Yeah. I guess we are that."

"So, then your problems are my business. Just like my problems are sometimes yours."

"Oh, shit," Charlotte grimaces, slumping back a little further into the couch cushions. "We were supposed to talk about Lucas, and Pete, and the custody stuff. And now I'm headin' toward havin' trouble keepin' all my sentences straight."

Violet laughs a little at that, and Charlotte joins her. "It's fine. We can talk about that tomorrow. You just wallow for a while. I'll put in another movie."

"Perfect. And in the mornin', we'll pretend you never got to see me all mopey and drunk?"

"If it'll make you happy."

"Mmhmm," Charlotte murmurs, shutting her eyes for just a second. At least, she means for it to be just a second, but the next time she opens them, the room is dark, and she's under a blanket, and her mouth is cotton-dry. She can just make out the shape of a water glass on the table, and she gulps it all down before turning her face back into the cushions and shutting her eyes. Tomorrow is gonna suck.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_Okay, apparently there are a few things that need to be addressed here:_

_1) I don't hate Cooper. In fact, I love Cooper. Even more - I love him with Charlotte. And he's not being punished here. Charlotte has made a point to tell him he's been forgiven for what he did, but forgiveness and reconciliation aren't the same thing, and Charlotte has a number of reasons (some entirely unrelated to her and Cooper) for waiting to take him back. None of those reasons is "punishment."_

_2) Travis paid the price for the things he did when they were married. She left, she divorced him, they didn't speak for six years. That was the cost for what he did - he lost his wife. Reconciliation is a gradual process, and all the pieces have to be in place before it is right. It took Charlotte six years to get the pieces in place enough to even talk to him about it, but by then she'd already done most of the forgiveness work on her own. It wasn't easy for either of them, and he didn't get off light. And to the person who said that miscarriage is no excuse for bad behavior, because "it happens to women all the time," I'm so offended by that statement that I don't even know how to respond. Please, go talk to someone who's lost a child, and then come back and try to be flippant about the death of an infant and its effect on the parents-to-be._

_3) Yes, I've seen the show. Every episode since the pilot, in fact, and all the Charlotte and Cooper scenes multiple times. Yes, their dynamic is slightly altered in this story – that's because nothing is static. Any time you introduce a variable into a situation, the dynamic shifts. Travis is a variable. He changes the dynamic of everything he affects, including Charlotte and Cooper's relationship._

_4) I don't write in reaction to reviews. By which I mean, I already have the story outlined, and nothing anyone praises, criticizes, likes, or hates in reviews is going to change the direction of the story. So please stop asking. Comment on what has happened, comment on what you think will happen, but don't tell me how you think I should change things going forward, or what you think needs to be done differently, because it's going the way it's outlined, and that will not change._

_5) Anonymous reviews are being turned off, if for no other reason than I cannot reply to anonymous reviews to address the questions/concerns of the people who leave them (I answer all my signed reviews, both positive and negative), and as a rule, I hate Author's Notes with a passion, especially long Author's Notes, and I don't want to have to leave another one. Also, I don't mind people criticizing my characters or my choices, but I do mind when they criticize me personally. And if you're gonna do that, I'm going to require you to at least own up and sign your name to it. It takes about two minutes to register, and it's free, and you can put all your favorite stories/authors on alert and get updates right to your email - it's fabulous. Join the party. (Also, if you think writers can't tell when the same reader leaves multiple anonymous reviews under different names... well, we can. And it's obnoxious. So don't do it.)_

_6) Guys, it's just fanfiction. They're not real. Not on the show, and not in this story. They're fictional characters, it's a fictional story. Breathe. Take a Xanax. Don't let it affect your day. And again, as always: if you don't like this story, then don't read this story. If it's stressing you out in a bad way, move on, and read something that doesn't stress you out in a bad way._


	34. Chapter 34

When the doorbell rings, and Charlotte answers it to find Cooper on the other side, a vase spilling with cheerful sunflowers and yellow gerber daisies clutched in his hands, she can't help but smile. The first thing she thinks is that the bouquet is gorgeous. The next, that if he's gonna start inundating her with flowers, too, she's gonna have to up her allergy meds. The third, that Cooper has never, not once, brought her flowers before.

And then she notices that he's not particularly smiling – at least not in that way he does when he's trying to earn her favor – and she remembers texting Travis yesterday (the only communication she's given him since she left his house three days ago) and telling him to stop sending her flowers at work. (The tulips had been followed by hot, multicolored Gerbera daisies yesterday, and today, it seems, sunflowers.)

Her smile dims into a scowl and she asks dryly, "Those aren't from you, are they?"

"No," he admits, shrugging apologetically. "Ran into the delivery guy on my way to the door. But I can say they're from me, if it'll make you smile again."

The corner of her mouth curves up before she can help it. "Wouldn't help. I'd know you were lyin'." She reaches out her hands for the vase. "Hand 'em over."

Cooper passes her the flowers, and she steps out of the doorway, leaving the door open for him as she plunks the vase down unceremoniously on the dining room table, then nabs the card nestled in the blooms. _Lola – Please talk to me. I love you. There's not enough space on these cards for a proper apology. – Travis. _They're gettin' longer every day, she notices. And look at that – his first proper 'I love you' to her and it's on a goddamned flower delivery card. Well, now at least she knows for sure.

"You keep making that face, it'll get stuck that way," Cooper teases, and Charlotte startles a little and looks up – she hadn't realized he was standing that close. She tries to gauge whether or not he was in range enough to read the little card over her shoulder, and thinks she's probably safe. She stuffs it into her pocket anyway, and tries to smooth her frown into something more pleasant.

"Sorry. Are you here for Violet?"

"I am," he confirms with a nod. "And to bring you this." For the first time, she notices the paper bag he has clutched in his hand.

"She's on the phone," Charlotte explains, "Somethin' work-related."

She takes the bag from him and opens it as he tells her, "Apple fritter," despite the fact that she can see it just fine for herself. She can't help it, she does smile now.

"You gonna take this one away, too, if I'm not receptive?" she smirks, remembering how he did just that when he was trying to fritter his way back into her good favor after their botched day-long engagement. It hadn't been funny at the time, and wasn't really now, but it's odd to think of them then compared with now.

"When did I take your fritter?"

"When you were tryin' to win me over after you refused to marry me."

His face falls a little, and she remembers a moment too late that their almost-marriage is a sore spot now for him as well. Crap. He recovers, some, and replies a little awkwardly, "Well, you didn't want it."

Charlotte shakes her head. Men.

"Of course I wanted it. I just didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowin' that." She reaches into the bag and tears off a piece of fritter, lifts it to her mouth, pops it in and chews. Delicious. "You'd embarrassed me, remember?"

Cooper nods, stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels. Well. This isn't awkward at all. It doesn't get any less awkward when he stares at her flowers for a minute and then adds, "Maybe I should've gotten you roses instead."

Charlotte makes a face. "I hate-"

"Hate roses," he finishes. "Right. Lilies?"

"Allergic," she reminds, and he grimaces, moving one hand to the back of the chair, scraping his thumb nail absently on the surface. Oh, this is going swimmingly.

"You already got tulips – and daisies – and now sunflowers," he mutters. "Not much of the garden left to choose from. Orchids maybe?"

"Orchids are nice," she concedes, before adding, "But it's not a competition, Coop. Besides, if you start sendin' me flowers, too, I'm gonna have to look into a second career as a florist, which I don't really have time for, so... Stick to the fritters."

He smiles at her, but there's something lurking beneath the surface, and then he says, "That's the third time you've gotten flowers this week – I'm gonna have to step up my game, I think. Maybe branch out into croissants or cupcakes."

She manages a chuckle at that, and shakes her head in amusement. Only Cooper. "Your game's just fine. He's just... um..."

She hesitates for a second, and it's just long enough of a pause for him to deduce, "In the doghouse?"

Charlotte tears off another piece of fritter and stuffs it in her mouth so she doesn't have to answer; Cooper's the absolute last person she wants to talk to about her problems with Travis.

"Bad topic?" Cooper asks, and Charlotte just gives him a tight smile in response.

"Only if you're expectin' an answer."

He nods a little, and they lapse into a moment of awkward silence. Then he asks, "Does that even work on you – apology flowers?"

"Doesn't hurt," Charlotte answers with a little shrug, glancing at the flowers again. They're bright and cheerful, a shock of yellow that actually looks pretty decent in Violet's dining room. It's a shame they don't actually do much to cheer her up. If the blooms in her office are any indication, she'll spend half the night staring at them, trying to figure out if she's ready to talk to Travis yet and feeling decidedly mopey (PMS, she reminds herself. It's all the PMS). "Also doesn't seem to help all that much, but I guess they're nice. Show's he's thinkin' on it. And me."

"You never really struck me as the flowers and candy type," Cooper admits, fiddling absently with the back of the chair he's standing next to. "I always figured you were, I don't know, above it. It seemed too easy for someone like you." Guess that explains the lack of flowers in their relationship – not that she'd been cryin' over it or anything. Hadn't really noticed until now, to be honest.

"What, you thought that just because I didn't need all the girly romantic trappings I don't have any appreciation for 'em? A bouquet is a nice gesture." She reaches into the bag again, nabs another piece of fritter. "But so are fritters. The gesture itself matters less than the intention behind it. Hell, you could bring me socks for all I care, as long as you put some thought behind it."

"I'll keep that in mind," he tells her with an easy smile, and she finds herself smiling back, just a little. "Are you okay, Charlotte? You've seemed... not quite yourself, the last few days. And I know things are still not great between us, I know you're not... ready... or whatever, but... I care. About you. And I notice when something's not right."

Charlotte feels the urge to shift uncomfortably, but straightens her spine instead. She forgets sometimes that Cooper managed to learn to read her pretty damned well in the time they were together. "I'm fine," she assures him.

"You sure? Because if you need me to go beat someone up for you..." He seems more than willing, and she's not sure whether it's amusing or irritating.

"I'm good," she assures him. "If Travis needs a beat-down, I'll be the one to give it to him."

Cooper laughs at her, then, and in a way that makes it pretty clear he doesn't doubt her for a second. "Yeah, I guess you would, huh? Charlotte King; Tough Girl."

"That's right," she tells him, and she hears him in her head again, from the other day in the kitchen: _You like to be tougher than everyone else. _Let it go, Charlotte. Let it go. They lapse into a silence that's not quite awkward but not quite comfortable either.

Finally, he tells her, "You should come with us, tonight. A movie, a little popcorn, some of those nachos you hate so much. I'll even buy you an Icee. Besides, we need someone to weigh in on movie choice – Violet and I can't decide, and there's no tiebreaker when there's only two of us."

It's a tempting offer, but she's starting to feel the twist of cramps in her belly, and she's not sure if she wants to venture into dinner-and-a-movie territory with Cooper again yet – even with a chaperone. "Tempting, but tonight's no good for me. Jen's callin' after her show," she lies, but it's a lie she knows Cooper will believe. Until lately, calls to Jen were few and far between and almost always penciled in a schedule somewhere.

Sure enough, he nods, and looks only slightly rejected when he tells her, "Ah. Okay. Well, rain check then. And, uh, tell her I say hi."

"I'll do that." She won't.

Just then, Violet comes trotting down the stairs. "Sorry, sorry – patient in crisis," she explains.

"Do you need to reschedule movie night?" Cooper asks, and Charlotte notices the way his face falls just a little more.

"No, no," Violet assures. "We spent the last hour on the phone and she's off the ledge, so to speak. She's coming in tomorrow for an emergency session, and I'm leaving my phone on, but I'm good to go." And then she stops, notices the flowers on the table and tilts her head. She hazards a glance at Cooper before looking at Charlotte and commenting, "Those are new."

Charlotte rolls her eyes, and sighs. "I told him to stop sending them to me at the office, so apparently now he's sending them here."

"You won't get any complaints out of me," Violet tells her, adding. "They match the runner," before stepping up and taking a closer look at the flowers – then murmuring quietly enough that only Charlotte can hear, "Maybe you should call him."

Charlotte gives a little shake of her head, then turns her attention back to Cooper. "What time's your movie?"

"That depends on which one we-"

"Thirty-five minutes," Violet pipes up, and Charlotte smirks. She's definitely not getting in the middle of that debate.

"Well, then you'd better get goin'," Charlotte urges. "I know Cooper can't live without his triple butter popcorn and disgusting nachos, and the concession lines at the theater are usually so long I actually feel myself growin' older while I stand there."

She watches them bicker their way out of the house – action movie or comedy is apparently the debate – and then sighs into the quiet once they've shut the door behind them. She glances at her flowers, picks them up and moves the vase to the dead center of the table. They do match the runner, she notices, fussing with the blooms a little before she catches herself. Maybe Violet is right. Travis has sent three bouquets and a dozen text messages over the last few days, maybe she ought to hear him out.

She pulls the card from her pocket and reads it again, then shakes her head. Not yet, she decides. Not tonight.

Tonight sounds like a good night for an indulgently large bowl of ice cream and a whole lot of HGTV. Somethin' easy. Somethin' light. Somethin' that doesn't involve romance in any way, shape, or form.


	35. Chapter 35

Travis hasn't seen or heard from Charlotte (aside from a single text message) in three days, and he's spent the whole time with his stomach tied in knots. He keeps hearin' her in his head: _I deserve a goddamned choice in when and how somethin' like this happens, and you didn't give it to me. _The last thing on his mind that morning had been hurtin' her, but it seemed that was exactly what he'd done. And in spectacular fashion. He hurt her, and she made it pretty clear he violated her, and that's just not somethin' he can live without rectifyin'.

He didn't figure the first bouquet would get him far – not with her as spittin' mad as she was when she left his place on Wednesday, but he'd hoped maybe the second one would get him somewhere, or at the very least the third. A phone call, a nasty email, some kind of communication. But he's gotten nothin' but silence, and it's eatin' him up inside.

So here he is, at noon on a Saturday, clutching a vase full of roses (she hates roses, he knows this – but these aren't your run-of-the-mill long-stem reds, so he hopes she'll be charmed by 'em) and lifting his hand to ring the doorbell at Violet's place.

He half expects to get no answer at all, but then the door swings open and Violet's standing there. She looks him up and down, smirks, and he knows just by the expression on her face that she knows what happened between them. He's feelin' too guilty to be embarrassed, though.

"Y'know, I have to say," she starts, before he manages to get his words together. "My house has never been prettier than the last few days. Sunflowers in the dining room, tulips in my bedroom, daisies in the bathroom, and now roses. I bet they'd look great in the kitchen."

Travis frowns. "The tulips are in your room?"

"Well, they were in her office until yesterday, but she didn't want them to die over the weekend, so she brought them home."

Well, that's something, he thinks. If she was still furious with him, you'd think she'd just let 'em wither. "Is she here?"

"She is," Violet nods carefully, before adding, "But she's sick. She has, and I quote, 'cramps so bad she thinks her guts are turning inside out.'"

Travis winces. Charlotte has a tendency toward debilitating cramps – or did, anyway, up until her early twenties when she finally got the right meds from her doctor. If he knows her, she'll be curled up in bed with a heating pad, pale and shaky, and generally miserable. He's thinkin' maybe now isn't the best time to grovel, and he should just leave the flowers and go, when Violet says, "If I were you, I'd use the fact that right now she probably can't kick me down the stairs the minute she sees me to my advantage." She steps back and holds a hand out to invite him in. "Her bedroom's upstairs. Second door on the right."

"I know," he says absently as he steps inside, and he doesn't miss the way she smiles knowingly. "She's still kick-me-down-the-stairs mad, huh?"

"She's hurt," Violet tells him. "But I think she might be just about ready to hear you out."

"Well, that's somethin', at least," Travis says, before he steels himself and heads upstairs. Charlotte's walking out of the bathroom just as he's walking down the hallway, and when she lifts her eyes and sees him, his heart aches. She looks like hell, pale and hunched a little, one hand pressed to her belly, her body swallowed up in baggy sweats and a thin tank top. She's already scowling, and the expression just deepens when she sees him.

"Violet let me up," he tells her, shifting his grip on the flowers in his hands.

"Remind me not to thank her for that," Charlotte mutters, and she even sounds pained. He has the overwhelming urge to just coddle her all better, but tamps it down. He's pretty sure that ain't happenin'. Charlotte keeps headin' for her bedroom, telling him, "I'm still mad at you."

"And I deserve it," he says, following her. She doesn't shut the door in his face, which he thinks is a pretty good sign, so he follows her in.

"You're damn right you do."

Travis stands there a little awkwardly as she climbs into the bed, props herself against the pillows and drags a heating pad into her lap. She winces, shuts her eyes and swallows hard, and he knows it's the so-bad-they-make-you-nauseous kind of cramps. Without thinkin', he moves to the bed, sets the roses down next to the glass of water on her nightstand and sits on the edge of the mattress. He threads her fingers with his and squeezes, and her grip tightens hard for a minute and then eases up.

She blows out a breath, squints her eyes open to look at him. "I don't have it in me to argue with you today."

"Then, let's not argue," he tells her. "Just hear me out."

Charlotte settles back further into her pillows and nods. "Fine. Talk."

"Junebug..." She winces again, and he just hates seein' her like this. "You look like hell."

"I feel like hell. Haven't had cramps this bad in years."

"Wasn't the birth control supposed to fix that?"

"I was. It does." She presses the heating pad harder against her belly. "Or did, anyway. My doctor changed my pill last month, and this one apparently doesn't work for shit."

"Why don't I rub your back?" he suggests. He doesn't figure she'll say yes, but it's worth a shot.

"Why don't you say your piece first," she challenges with a raise of her brow, and Travis figures that's fair.

"Alright. I just thought you might-"

"Travis."

"Right." Apology, or nothin'. He reaches for the flowers again, and hands them to her. She sets them in her lap and holds 'em just tight enough for them not to topple over. "I got you these."

"I hate roses."

"You hate 'em, 'cause they're boring," he reminds, pointing at the bouquet. "These aren't boring. They're all bright pink, and yellow, and orange, and there's little – see? – little hearts there in the vase." That single brow creeps up again. He's not makin' any progress. "They're bright and cheerful."

"I'm not bright and cheerful," she tells him.

"No, but you brighten my-"

"Don't," she cuts him off, moving the vase back to the nightstand none to gently, heavy glass hitting wood with a loud thunk. "Don't you dare give me that tired, sad, horrible line that was about to come outta your mouth."

Travis shuts his mouth presses his lips between his teeth for a second and tries again. She's not a big fan of charm when she's mad – he's not even sure why he tried that one. Graspin' at straws. "They're pretty, and they made me think of you, but the flowers don't matter, Lola. What matters is that you hear me out."

"So talk," she tells him. "I'm sittin' here wincin' through cramps so I can hear what you have to say, and so far you haven't said much of anything worth hearin'."

"I'm sorry," he says, reaching for her hand again. She lets him thread their fingers, but leaves her hand limp in his. "I know I hurt you, bad, and I'm sorry. But I want you to know that what happened, what we did... I didn't mean to make it about somethin' other than us. I was just tryin' to-"

"Don't," she warns him, and Travis sighs. He's never gonna get through this if she keeps interruptin' him. "Don't you piss on my leg and tell me it's rainin', Travis. You knew exactly what you were doin', and it wasn't just about you and me."

He takes a breath, lets it out. This isn't goin' well. "I never meant to hurt you," he tells her again.

"Now that one I actually believe."

Well, thank God. "It's just, I love you."

"Yeah, I got the card," she says, with just enough added bitterness that he hesitates for a second before replying.

"Good."

"Good? Good that the first time you say you love me is on a card and not to my face?" She crosses her arms, scowls at him, and he thinks _Crap_. He hadn't really thought of it that way. He'd just been so desperate for her to talk to him, desperate for her to know that he cared about her, that she was important to him, that this could (God, he hoped) all be worked out. He figured an "I love you" couldn't hurt matters any, and if he'd been at all unsure about the depth of his feelings for her, the threat of losing her had wiped any and all doubts away.

"I was startin' to think you might never talk to me again," he told her, "And I wanted to make sure you knew."

"Then you call me up-"

"You wouldn't have answered."

"Or you _show_ up-"

"I did – I am. I'm here."

"But you don't write somethin' like that on a card, Travis. It cheapens it."

"Guess I've been cheapenin' a lot of things lately," he mutters, wishing he could figure out the right thing to say to her. He's usually so good at navigating Charlotte, but for some reason when he's hurt her – really hurt her – he ends up feelin' like he ain't got the sense he was born with.

"Don't be a sadsack," she huffs, shaking her head at him. "But yes, you have."

"Look, Lola..." He squeezes her hand a little more tightly; she doesn't give him anything in return. "I just got you back in my life. And then you tell me this other guy – who doesn't treat you well-"

"And you do?"

"That's not the point. This other guy comes back, and he wants you again, and you've been sayin' for weeks that all you want is to either stop feelin' so bad or get back with him. I..." He's the one shakin' his head now, shrugging his shoulders. "I panicked, okay? I thought if we got more serious, you wouldn't go waltzin' off to Cooper."

"So you decided to just grope me in my sleep a little?"

"No," he drawls slowly. "I decided to wake you up with kisses. Thought I could romance you a bit, get you sweet on me again."

"And the hand up my shirt?"

"You weren't wakin' too fast. Thought it'd rouse you a bit quicker." He scratches the back of his head with his free hand, grimaces a little. "But you were out like a light. Took longer than I thought it would, and then you were so into it, I figured it was fine. I thought if you woke up and you didn't want what was happenin', you'd say no. I'd've stopped if you'd said no. I hope you'd know that."

He'd been tryin' to decide what was worse the last few days – her thinkin' he was the kind of guy who would push past her limits, who would force her, or the fact that it seemed he's actually lived up to the suspicion. He'd been with a good number of women in his days, but he respected them all enough to make sure he wasn't ever taking advantage. The last person he ever imagined he'd cross that line with was Charlotte.

"I would've said no," she tells him, and he swears he feels her fingers pulse against his hand, but it's so brief and so light he can't be sure. "But the thing is, Travis, I didn't have a problem with what we did. I wanted you, you wanted me. It felt good. I can't say I didn't want it, or that I regretted it. Not until I was standin' in that bathroom covered in hickeys and realizin' _why_ you did it. Because it _was_ about somethin' other than us, Trav. It was about you markin' me all up, so anyone who saw me – and by anyone we both know I mean Cooper – would know that there was someone takin' up space in my bed at night. Here I was, thinkin' it was a bit foolish, maybe, to go there again after all this time, but... we both knew it was comin' eventually. With our history, and the tension, the makin' out we couldn't seem to keep ourselves from doin'... the sex was inevitable, but the jealousy? The possessiveness? Those aren't, and those, quite frankly, hurt."

"I'm sorry." Travis has the decency to look at guilty as he feels. She's right, he thinks. She's right, and he ought to have eased up after he noticed he'd left that first hickey, but well... he _did_ want Cooper to see 'em and think she was spoken for. He'd been careful not to make 'em too dark – just enough to be noticeable if you were takin' a good look at someone – but he'd be lying if he tried to tell her he hadn't marked her on purpose, for exactly the reason she was thinkin' he did.

"Good," she says, drawing his attention back. "You oughta be. One of the things I always loved about you – about us – was that when we were together like that, you had this way of makin' me feel like I was the only person in the world, the only thing that mattered. The only thing on your mind. And maybe it's silly for me to be thinkin' it'd still be like that all these years later, but... I did. I thought that. And realizin' that while I was in bed with you – one hundred percent, totally with _you_ – you were thinkin' about someone else... it was like bein' kicked in the gut, Trav. _You're_ the good guy. _You're_ the one who treats me well, the one who thinks I deserve the damned moon. But you weren't with me. Not really. Your head was off somewhere else, with the guy I'd already told you I had turned down."

"For now."

"Yes, for now, Travis. Because you're leavin' in six weeks."

Closer to five now, he thinks, and he's tempted to tell her he can stay. That he won't leave, and she can kiss Cooper Freedman's sorry ass goodbye, but he doesn't figure that'll gain him any points right now, so he just keeps quiet.

"And for the love of all that's good and holy, Travis, I am a _doctor._ More than that, I'm chief of staff at a hospital. I'm the top of the totem pole in that building; people are supposed to respect me. I have to deal with patients – unhappy, angry, grieving patients and their families – day in and day out. I can't show up at work with a neck full of hickeys, like a horny teenager after prom night. What in the hell were you thinkin'?"

He hadn't thought of that – it literally had never crossed his mind that the hickeys would make her look a fool. Embarrass her. Hurt her credibility. Shit. He's not sure he knows anyone who prides themselves more on the work they do than Charlotte King, and he went and made her look bad. No wonder she didn't talk to him for three days straight – the hickeys alone would probably be reason enough, knowing her.

"Shit, Lola," he sighs. "I'm sorry – I didn't think."

"No, of course you didn't. If you'd been thinkin', we wouldn't be sittin' here. You'd be layin' with me, rubbin' my back and makin' me feel good." She's tearing up all of a sudden, and it's such a quick turn of emotion that he's almost startled by it – until he remembers she's in pain, and hormonal, and a few tears are probably par for the course. "But instead, we _are_ sittin' here, talkin' about your bad behavior, and – goddamnit!" She wipes furiously at tears, presses the heels of her hands hard against her eyes.

"Shh, Lola," he murmurs, reaching up and wrapping his hands gently around her wrists, pulling them down until he can look into those wet green eyes. "It's alright. You're hurtin' – in more ways than one, I know. But I really am sorry. And I swear – I promise you – if you give me another chance, if we can just go back to seein' where things go, spendin' time together and doin' what comes naturally, I will be on my best behavior. I will tamp down the jealousy, and I swear to you, I won't lay so much as a hand on any of your private parts without your express permission. I promise, okay?"

She nods, tugs her arms from his grip and wipes at the last of her tears – her eyes are dry already. "Fine. But only because I've spent so damned long bein' mad at you – six years and now this. And I'm just tired of it. I'm tired of bein' mad at you, Travis. I'm sick of it. I'm tired of you givin' me reasons to be mad. So, fine – you stop givin' me reasons to be pissed off and hurt, and we can try again."

"I'll stop," he swears, feeling that knot of dread he's been carryin' around for days begin to loosen some. "I promise. Now, let me rub your back? Please?"

She hesitates long enough that he thinks she'll say no again, but then she surprises him by rolling onto her belly, heating pad tucked safely beneath her. "Okay. You remember how I like it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, shifting slightly and then pressing his thumbs on either side of the base of her spine, dragging them up, slow and steady to the middle of her back. She lets out a little grunt of approval, and he does it again. He keeps it up for twenty minutes straight, straying to her shoulders now and again, but keeping most of his focus on her lower back to counteract the aches in her belly.

She doesn't speak again, and he thinks she's dozing lightly, forehead still creased with discomfort, but then she cranes her neck to scowl at him. "It still hurts like a bitch," she tells him, and Travis wishes there was more he could do.

"I can keep rubbin' as long as you need."

She studies him for a minute, chews her lip and deepens the furrow in her brow. And then she rolls over and slides the heating pad away. Travis settles his hand on her belly, where's she's so warm he can't help but wonder how close she was to burnin' herself. "There's somethin' else that sometimes helps – pretty much always helps, actually."

"Okay. Anything – what can I do?"

She bites that lip again, then settles her hand over his and guides it down over her sweats until he's cupping her crotch lightly. Well. That's certainly... unexpected.

"...Lola?"

"Orgasms. Muscles contract, oxytocin goes swimmin' all through your veins. It eases the cramps."

"Okay..."As far as home remedies go, he's not gonna complain about this one, but... "Didn't I just get the silent treatment for three days on account of my doin' this?"

"No, you got the silent treatment for doin' it without askin' and for the wrong reasons," she corrects. "Now, _I'm_ askin', and I'd say pain reduction is a damned good reason." She fixes him with a little pout and those pretty green eyes, and he has enough sense to know he's being manipulated with that face, but doesn't care. He's also not sure why she thinks he might need convincing. "At this point, either you have to do it, or I've gotta kick you out so I can take care of it myself. And truth be told, I'm beat, and achy, and just want to lie here and be tended to for a bit."

"Can't argue with that," he mutters, pressing his hand a little more snugly against the curve of her body. "Are you sure?"

"Mmhmm," she murmurs, letting her eyes drop shut. "Build it up slow. Might take a while, startin' cold like this."

"I've got time," he assures her, climbing onto the bed with her, and stretching out alongside her before slipping his hand beneath her sweats but over the soft cotton of her underwear. She shifts a little, turns her face until her nose is brushing against him, and raises one knee, then drops it against his hip to open her legs a little wider.

Travis does just as she asked, starts slow and easy, watches the way her breath starts to deepen eventually, teeth catching her bottom lip. He murmurs for her to look at him, and she does, opening those pretty eyes and he can't look away – can't let her look away either – as his hand continues working steadily against her.

He brings her up once, watches her gasp and moan, and doesn't stop until she comes a second time. She tries to reach for him, murmurs something about returning the favor as a thank-you, but he pushes her hand away, assures her he can wait, and tells her to shut her eyes, just feel, get some rest.

He waits until she's snoozing heavily before slipping out of the bed and sneaking into the bathroom to take care of himself. All in all, he thinks, this could've gone a whole lot worse.


	36. Chapter 36

Violet is in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of water when Travis strolls in, looking a little sleepy and disheveled. He's been at her place for four hours now, and she figures things must have gone well with Charlotte if the lack of hollering (or even heated voices) was any indication. Of course that lack of hollering meant she didn't get to eavesdrop on how the whole groveling thing went for him, so now she's stuck having to ask point blank.

"So." She shuts off the faucet, takes a sip of water as he freezes, looking just a little guilty. Well, that's interesting. "Safe to say she didn't throw you down the stairs."

He smiles a little, answers, "Yeah, I dodged that bullet," as he heads for the fridge. "Although she might've at first there, if she hadn't been so god-awful sick."

Violet winces sympathetically. "How's she feeling?"

"Better enough to sleep for-" he glances at the oven clock as he pulls a pitcher out from the back of the fridge and sets it on the countertop. "Three hours straight. She's still out, but I don't figure that'll last much longer. Thought I might make dinner; I don't think she had lunch."

He grabs a glass from the cupboard, pours. Iced tea, it looks like. Hmm. Violet didn't even know that was in there.

"We don't have much in the way of food right now," she tells him. She keeps meaning to go grocery shopping, but between catching up on work and navigating this whole suing-Pete-for-custody thing, she just hasn't gotten around to it. She and Charlotte have been surviving on sandwiches and take-out for the last week.

"I'll scrounge something up," he assures, lifting the pitcher and raising his brows at her. "Wanna swap that water for some authentic Georgia sweet tea?"

"I'm good."

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, stashing the pitcher back in the fridge and frowning over the nearly bare shelves. He opens the crisper, pulls out the lone zucchini left in the drawer, then shuts the door, switches to the freezer. "That whole wheat linguini still in the pantry?"

Violet sets down her water, opens the pantry, and sure enough, there it is. "Yep."

"How about the marinara sauce? Might be tucked in the back a bit..."

She moves a few cans of soup aside, and finds it, sure enough – tucked in the back. "Got it."

"Perfect. Linguini marinara, with zucchini and chicken," he announces, tossing a frozen pack of chicken breasts on the center island. Huh. She hadn't known they had those either.

"How is it that you know what's in my kitchen better than I do?" she asks as Travis pulls a pot from the bottom cabinet and starts filling it with water from the sink like he's done this a dozen times before.

He chuckles a little and tells her, "Because I either bought or suggested most of it. Lola would eat nothin' but sandwiches and takeout if you let her."

He's got that right, she thinks as she settles onto a stool next to the island. "So. Travis."

"Violet."

"Tell me about yourself – the truth, this time, now that I know who you really are."

He catches her eye and grins. "I wasn't too far off the last time. But-" He holds up one hand in a boy scout salute, "I do solemnly swear to speak the truth this time. I am, in fact, from Georgia. I'm a musician – guitar mostly, and bass."

"Lead guitar?"

"No," he shakes his head. "Not usually, anyway. Rhythm guitar – less spotlight, but very important. And I teach, too, back in Georgia. Private lessons, and a few classes a week at a local music school. I have a younger brother, Todd, which is how I met Charlotte."

Aha. "Yeah, I never completely bought that whole 'we met in college' thing you both tried to sell me."

Travis chuckles, shakes his head. "Well, we might've pulled it off better if she'd given me a heads up, so we could get our story straight. But it's not entirely untrue – it was the summer before college. For her, anyway. I was a junior. Her best friend was Todd's girlfriend, and Lola spent the summer with her."

"And it was love at first sight, I'm sure?" Violet says with a knowing smile of her own.

"Not at all," Travis surprises her, adjusting the heat under the pot on the stove, tossing a little salt into the water. "Not for me anyway. She was seventeen, I was twenty-one – and seein' someone. I thought she was cute – in that 'you're way too young for me' way, but that was about it. But the next summer," he makes a little noise of appreciation that Violet can't help but roll her eyes at, "She grew up a bit that first year of college, and stepped up her game when summer came around again. Todd and I were livin' together then, and she and Jen were there all the time in these teeny tiny bikinis. Layin' out in the back yard, grabbin' the sprinkler hose and havin' water fights. I swear I never saw her in more than a bikini top and Daisy Dukes the whole first month she was home – and I know it was intentional, because by the end of June I was showin' some interest, and once she thought she had me hooked, she started showin' up in tank tops, and t-shirts, and sundresses now and then. I kissed her on the fourth of July, had a little summer fling before she went back to school, but didn't end up really datin' each other until that next spring break."

"The magic of Cancun was just too much to resist?" Violet teases, and Travis laughs at her.

"Key West," he corrects. "And it was less the magic, and more Lola deciding she was done waiting for me to decide she was grown enough to take to bed."

"Why do you call her Lola?" Violet asks, adding. "You said it was an inside thing before, but I figure now that the cat's out of the bag about you two..."

"'Cause whatever she wants, she gets. Her Momma took to callin' her that when she was little, on account of she was so goddamned spoiled by her Daddy. And then someone pointed out that 'Whatever Lola Wants' is a song about sex, and her Momma was apparently mortified, and adamantly refused to let anyone get away with usin' the nickname again." The chicken goes into the microwave to defrost, and then he's pulling a skillet out from under the cabinets, setting it on an empty burner and hunting through the cupboards. "But her brothers would still pull it out every once in a while when they thought she was bein' overly favored. I thought it suited her, so I stole it, and used it enough that she liked it again."

"I bet her mother loved that." It occurs to Violet that she's never, not once, heard Charlotte really talk about her parents – aside from the little bits she pulled out of her (alcoholic, Southern, stoic, strict) all those years ago when Pete had been trying to cure her insomnia. Everything else she knows was relayed through Cooper after his impromptu trip to Alabama when her father died, but even then, it had been a pretty somber affair and he wasn't exactly there to meet the family. He didn't come back with any stories about Charlotte growing up; no nicknames, or embarrassing photos, or anything like that.

"Hated it," he confirms. "But she didn't like me much to begin with. Musician and all. A lot of their money came from her Momma's side, and she thought I was a freeloader, fritterin' away her family's hard-earned wealth. We almost eloped, her Momma was so adamantly against us gettin' married."

"What changed her mind?" Violet asks, almost surprised that Travis is so much of an open book about this stuff all of a sudden. She wonders for a second if Charlotte would mind him telling her this much, and then decides she doesn't really care. Charlotte is a fascinating ball of neuroses, and any information Violet can get about where she comes from and who she is serves as another puzzle piece that Violet can try to fit into place.

"Big Daddy."

"He liked you?"

"Not at all – well, hardly at all. I treated Lola well, and we shared a deep-seated hatred of the Auburn Tigers, so I was a passable for his baby girl, but certainly not ideal." He's found what he was looking for – several bottles of spices, and a bottle of olive oil. He mixes spices together in a bowl as he continues talking, "But he loved Charlotte more than anything. She always had him wrapped around her little finger. So when we wanted to get married, she just pulled at his heartstrings, told him it didn't have to be a big wedding – that she'd rather it wasn't, anyway – she just wanted him to be able to walk her down the aisle. And that if he didn't, we'd just go to a justice of the peace and do it anyway. So he talked her Momma into it, and in return, her bitch of a mother insisted on the biggest, most elaborate, most ridiculous wedding you've ever seen. Lola had wanted something intimate and understated, and instead she got 400 guests, half of which neither of us had ever met, a band that was not the one we wanted, expensive catering that included almost nothing we actually liked, and flowers Lola was allergic to. She and her Momma fought through the whole process, she cried on the morning of her wedding, and they barely spoke the whole first year we were married. By the end of it, her Daddy figured we'd have probably been better off if we _had_ eloped."

Well, that explains that, Violet thinks. "She and Cooper almost got married, right after her dad died." Travis stills for a second, olive oil in hand, his back to her. "She wanted to elope in Vegas. Now, I can kind of see why."

"Sounds about right," he mutters, and his voice is a little tight. Clearly Cooper is a sore subject – and it's not that she didn't know that, she did, but it's another thing to see it in person. "I can't tell you how many times I heard the phrase '_If the ceremony isn't gonna be ours, we might as well not have it_.' Can't imagine she'd want to go through another wedding if she didn't have to."

There's a few moments of awkward silence, wherein Violet watches Travis season a few chicken breasts, his focus entirely on the food. Yeah, bringing up Cooper was a bad idea. The silence stretches until she hears the sizzle of the chicken going into the pan, and then Violet figures she needs to steer them back into a safe conversation.

"So," she begins carefully, "What are the Auburn Tigers?"

"'What are the Auburn Tigers?'" Travis scoffs, shaking his head slowly. "Only one of the biggest rivals for both University of Georgia football – go Bulldogs – and University of Alabama football – roll tide. I went to UGA, Big Daddy went to 'Bama. The King household is all about the Alabama Crimson Tide; Charlotte and I nearly came to blows once while watchin' a UGA-'Bama game. But we could always come together over our hatred for the Tigers."

"You didn't literally almost get in a fist fight with your wife over football, right?" Violet questions, hoping that was just a figure of speech.

"Oh, I wouldn't been the one who started it, I assure you," he mutters. "Lola has a competitive streak in her a mile wide, and it doesn't matter whether she's playin' or watchin'. Game was tied up, and the ref made what she considered a bad call with just seconds left on the clock, lost her team a touchdown. That woman threw a football _at my head_. I had to kindly point out that I wasn't in charge of the referee, or of her team's shitty play, and could she please stop pitching things at my skull to vent her frustration. And then we beat their asses good and proper in overtime, and that sore loser I was married to didn't speak to me for the rest of the night."

"I will never really understand football fans," Violet says, shaking her head a little.

"What?" he questions, disbelieving.

"C'mon, seriously – who gets that upset over a game?"

"Don't tell me I need to stick around until football season starts up again, so I can school you good and proper in the glories of the game. Because let me tell you, Violet, there is nothin' like college football. Where'd you go to school, anyway?"

"Harvard," she tells him, and he makes a face at her.

"Right. You doctors all went to the fancy schools. Harvard, Yale, Johns Hopkins. Any team in the SEC could kick your Ivy League asses with their eyes closed and half their first string missin'."

"How many years out of college are you?" she asks, not entirely surprised by the fervor in his voice, but amused nonetheless. Guys and their sports, she'll never get it. Project Runway? Sure. Top Chef? She gets that. But the sports obsession is something she's never really been able to relate to – she can understand it from a psychological standpoint: the urge for tradition, rallying around a belief or symbol, the competitive surge of testosterone. But sit her in a room full of fans while the game is on, and it's like the whole room is speaking Mandarin. Something just gets lost in translation.

Travis turns his attention from the stove and grins at her. "Doesn't make a damned bit of difference. College football starts when you're born and lasts until you die. At least where I come from, anyway." He's poured the marinara into a saucepan, and doctored it with the seasonings while they were talking. Now he spoons up a little bit, blows on it and cups his hand beneath the spoon as he crosses to her. "Here, taste this – and then tell me somethin' about you. I feel like all we've done is yap about me."

She sips the sauce off the spoon and narrowly avoids burning her tongue – which is good because then she wouldn't have been able to taste the mix of flavors in the sauce. "Oh, that's good – where'd you get that stuff?"

"Organic aisle of the supermarket," he tells her, slurping up the last bit of sauce she left on the spoon. "The trick to making bottled things taste homemade – adjust the spices yourself. You think it needs anything else?"

"Oh, I wouldn't even know where to start with that. I can make a decent meal, and follow a recipe, but when it comes to things like 'what spice am I missing' I'm totally lost."

He dips toward the pot with the spoon again, but freezes an inch before the surface of the sauce. She sees him give her a tiny sideways glance before setting the spoon down on the countertop and grabbing a clean one to scoop up another taste for himself. Violet smirks.

"The Flavor Bible," he tells her before sipping off the spoon. "Pick it up. It'll tell you what foods and flavors go well together." He shakes something into the pot, then adds, "And I meant what I said – tell me about you."

Violet makes a mental note to look up the book, and then tells him, "Okay. Well. Violet Turner. Psychiatrist. Went to Harvard."

"All of which I already knew," he points out with a smile and a wink, turning the sauce to low, flipping the heat off on the pasta and grabbing a colander.

"Right. Well... I am an only child, my parents are... not great. Pretentious and awful, and couldn't even be bothered to call more than once, much less think about coming home when I was in the hospital a year ago."

"I heard about that," he tells her, voice suddenly full of sympathy. "Can't imagine goin' through what you what you went through." He hefts the pot of pasta and pours it into the colander to send a plume of steam rising. "And screw 'em – your parents. If they can't be bothered to be care for you like they ought to, they don't deserve you in the first place."

Violet smiles, but it's a little bittersweet. Her parents leave a lot to be desired, and she appreciates the sentiment, but she can't help but think of Lucas. Sometimes the best thing a parent can do is not take care of their kid – she has to believe that, has to, or her choices during the last year have been unforgivable. "I have a son, Lucas, who is almost one." She pauses for a second then adds, "Which I suppose you know, if you know about what happened to me."

Travis just smiles at her, then turns his attention to cutting the chicken breasts into strips. "He lives with his daddy, right?"

"Yes. Pete. For now."

Travis turns, lifts a brow. "For now?"

"I'm suing for custody," she tells him, and Travis blows out a breath.

"Ooh. That can get ugly."

"Yeah, I'm getting that idea," she mutters, thinking of her last meeting with the lawyer, and the prospect of subpoenas, and calling all her friends onto the stand, and the uncertainty of everything right now. "Do you have kids?" Violet asks, thinking maybe he'll have some insight for her on this whole process. Not that she hasn't seen it before, from a professional standpoint, but it's different to talk about it when it's you who's doing the fighting

"No – not really. My ex has a little girl, Dakota, and I love her like she's mine, but I'm not her daddy."

"She lives with her mom?"

"Her dad doesn't even know she exists," he tells her, and Violet deflates a little. Well, that's not helpful.. "So I managed to avoid that whole mess, but I've seen a few friends go through it – the whole custody thing. And the trick as far as I can tell is to cover all your bases, have a plan in place for what your life will look like if you do win, and then rack up as many supportive friends as you can to stand beside you." He plates pasta, pours sauce over it – and hey, there's the zucchini. She hadn't even noticed him slipping that into the pot. "After that, it's all just a whole lot of prayin', and hopin' for a sympathetic judge." He tops the pasta with the chicken, then sets the plate in front of her. "And if you lose, you try again."

It's nothing she hasn't heard before, but Violet's not immune to a supportive pep talk, so she offers him a smile, and a thank you, and takes the fork he's handing her. "Are you gonna wake Charlotte?"

He glances at the clock, frowns. "Not quite yet. You want some of that sweet tea now?"

Violet chuckles, and nods. Her glass is empty anyway. "Sure." He nabs it off the island, heads to the fridge, and she shakes her head at him. "Y'know, I could get used to this whole waitservice in my own home thing. I suppose I should've offered to help you."

"Nah," he dismisses, pouring her glass, then giving the pitcher a little shake. She can hear the water slosh around – it's almost empty. He leaves the pitcher out, then brings the glass back to her. "I like cookin'. Don't mind a bit." He gestures to her plate. "Dig in."

She twirls pasta around her fork, and is just lifting it to take a bite when the kitchen door swings open and in walks Charlotte. She looks better than the last time Violet saw her, but not by much, and she hugs her arms around herself like she's chilled, then glances at the glass in front of Violet.

"Hey sleepyhead," Travis greets, right before Charlotte clears her throat and opens her mouth to speak.

"That's not the last of the sweet tea, is it?" Her voice is a little gravelly from sleep, and she scowls when Travis grimaces.

"Not quite, but it's close. I figured I'd brew some more – you still have teabags, yeah?"

Charlotte nods, then slides onto the empty stool next to Violet as Travis pours her a glass – or half a glass, as it were, holding the pitcher almost vertical to let the last few drops drip out. "They're in the pantry."

He hands her the glass and she frowns over it, then lifts it to take a drink.

"I have a full glass; I can pour some of mine into yours, even it out a little," Violet offers, and Charlotte finishes her sip, sets her glass down, slides it over.

Travis rounds the back of the island on his way to the pantry, and pauses next to Charlotte, running his hand down her back and pressing a kiss to the back of her head. "How you feelin', junebug?"

She shrugs him off, then jerks her shoulder a little. "Less crappy, but still crappy. I'll live."

Violet manages to spill only a little bit of tea on the countertop as she pours a good portion of her glass into Charlotte's, then slides it back. Travis grabs the box of teabags from the pantry, then heads back toward the stove. He sets the box aside in favor of fixing another plate of food. "I made dinner," he tells her, and Charlotte blinks sleepily at his back.

"Smells good," she murmurs. "But I'm not particularly hungry."

Travis pauses for a second in the process of topping her plate with chicken, and sighs. Then he turns, sets the plate and a fork down in front of her. "Lola, it's dinnertime. You've gotta eat somethin'."

"I'm not hungry," she repeats, a little more slowly, a little more pointedly.

"Did you eat lunch?"

"No. I wasn't-"

"You weren't hungry," he finishes, nodding, and Violet watches his frustration begin to ratchet up. Interesting. "Well, hungry or not, your body needs food, and I shouldn't have to tell that to you and your fancy medical degree."

Charlotte raises one brow, slowly, and Violet hides her smirk in her tea glass. This isn't going to go well for him. "Travis," she tells him carefully. "I'm in pain. I feel like shit. I'm not hungry. I don't want to eat."

Travis is undeterred. "Lola-"

"For God's sake, Travis, why can't you ever just take no for an answer?" Charlotte snaps, and Violet watches Travis go still and quiet. Considering the fight the two of them just had, that's probably not ideal phrasing – unless this was the desired effect, which, hey, maybe it was. Travis just stares at her for a minute, and Charlotte stares back. He sucks his lower lip in a little, the lets out a breath.

And then he's moving again, reaching for her plate, and telling her, "Fine. You don't wanna eat, don't eat." He sets the plate back on the opposite counter with a clatter, and Violet watches Charlotte's temper flare even further.

"Could you not throw my dishes around, please?" she bites, and despite the 'please,' there's nothing polite about her tone.

"I didn't throw anything," he snaps back, grabbing another pot and slapping on the faucet to fill it with water. The sound of the faucet almost covers his grumbled, "And they're not your dishes anyway."

Violet turns her full attention to her plate. She is staying far, far out of this argument.

"Fine. Then stop throwin' _Violet's _dishes, and while you're at it, stop arguin' like a five year old." She picks her glass, mutters, "'Not your dishes'" under her breath with a shake of her head.

"I'm not the one actin' like a child."

"Oh, because I'm not hungry, I'm childish now?"

"Hungry doesn't matter all that much with you, you know that."

"Trav, this isn't me workin' through lunch and forgettin' I haven't eaten. I don't feel good-"

"Weak and headachy, little dizzy?"

"Yes-"

"So you're _hungry_," he tells her, and Charlotte lets out a little growl of frustration.

"Y'know what? Fine," she snaps. "If it means so damned much to you, give me the plate back and I'll pick at it."

"No, you're not hungry-"

"TRAVIS!" Violet startles a little at the outburst, then fights hard not to laugh out loud. "Give me the goddamned plate!"

Violet catches sight of it sliding across the island, and dares a glance up. They're glaring daggers at each other, and then Travis turns his attention back to the stove – there are teabags in the pot he'd been filling and he's dishing himself a plate of dinner.

The kitchen is very, very, very quiet.

They may not be married anymore, but Violet can't help but notice that they still fight like they are. And she probably shouldn't find it funny, but it's such a domestic fight that she can't help but be amused by them. At least she knows her evening won't be dull.


	37. Chapter 37

Travis spends the night on Saturday, spooned up against her, pressing his knuckles into her spine in deep, soothing half-moons until she falls asleep (and then again, bless his heart, when she wakes up wincing at 3 AM). But she kicks him out promptly after brunch, and takes in a yoga class to decompress from the emotional wringer of the last week. It helps, but she's still not exactly feelin' zen.

When Monday morning rolls around and he calls her up, insisting that she clear her lunch hour for him – the whole hour this time, he demands, not just forty-five minutes – Charlotte almost tells him no. But she knows he's still feelin' the need to butter her up a bit after what he did, so she finds herself rushing to get through last-minute paperwork at St. Ambrose in order to meet him at the entrance of the Santa Monica pier at noon sharp.

She's just about to shut down her computer and head out when Cooper pokes his head into her office. "Hey there, Dr. King," he greets, all charming smiles with a little wrapped package tucked under his arm.

"Hey, yourself," she greets, and it doesn't escape her notice that things feel easy between them today – easier than they have in months. She chooses to enjoy it instead of dwell on it, and nods to the rectangle of red wrapping paper under his arm. "What you got there?"

"Come to lunch with me and find out," he teases, and Charlotte's stomach twists a little. Damnit. Her face falls, too, automatically, and she watches as his does the same. "Or not?"

"I'm sorry, it's just... I already have plans," she explains, finally clicking the "shut down" button on her PC and wincing apologetically. "I was just on my way out."

He nods, resigned, dejected really, and doesn't quite meet her eyes. He's not dumb; she's pretty sure he has a good idea of what her lunchtime plans are. Especially when all he says is, "Right. Of course."

Her heart twists, and she has this sudden stab of guilt, not unlike the feelin' she had when she cheated on him. Which is ridiculous, she tells herself, because they're not together anymore – he made sure of that (and then she did). But she still cares, enough to want to wipe that pitiful pout off his face, so she makes a point to smile and say, "But tomorrow, I'm all yours."

He glances up, then, and she catches a glimmer of hope in his eye.

"We can even go to that funky Indian place you like so much," she offers with a wrinkle of her nose.

Cooper laughs a little, shakes his head. "You hate that place."

"I don't love it, but the naan is good. I could gladly fill up on garlic naan for lunch, let me assure you."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. I'm at Oceanside tomorrow morning, should be done with my last morning patient around twelve-fifteen."

That smile is back on his face, which makes her feel a little less like she's kickin' his puppy. "Okay. Twelve-fifteen it is. Naan-a-palooza."

Charlotte laughs a little and nods, pushing away from her desk and reaching for her purse. She glances at her watch and frowns – by the time she gets to her car, she'll already be five minutes behind schedule.

"It's a date," he finishes, and Charlotte freezes for just a second, and now she feels like she's cheatin' on Travis, and damnit, what the hell has she gotten herself into?

She shoulders her purse, grabs her keys off the edge of her desk and corrects, "It's a lunch. A friendly lunch. Between friends."

It's like deja vu – this conversation. She can't count the number of times she's had it in the past few months, just with another guy. Another guy who's gonna be waitin' on her at the pier if she doesn't hustle her butt a little bit.

"Right." A little of the levity is gone from his voice again, but Cooper keeps a too-formal smile plastered on his face. "Friends. Well, I'll uh," he gestures with the package, and she's about to ask what it is when he concludes, "I'll see you tomorrow then. I should get going too."

And then he's out the door, and she's sighing, and wishin' she had the clarity of mind she had two weeks ago, when she hadn't yet gone and mucked everything up by startin' up again with Travis. And then she's out the door as well, and speed walking toward the elevator. Seven minutes late, now.

**.::.**

She makes up some time by squeezing through the last second of not one, but two yellow lights on the way there, but he still greets her with a shake of his head and a, "You're late, Lola."

He's smiling though, so she knows he's just givin' her crap.

"I'm an important woman," she reminds him. "Sometimes I get held up on my way out." He doesn't need to know that the hold up this time was the guy he doesn't want her to be with. As far as she's concerned, Cooper isn't his business – not anymore, anyway. Not now that the two of them are gettin' intimate again.

Travis hands her a paper tray of chicken strips, one end positively drowned in ketchup. "Well, Important Lady, you're about to have the best hour of your week. Now, eat up. We've gotta go wait behind all the tourists."

"Wait behind – what?" she asks, shifting her purse a little and holding the chicken strips in the other.

Travis moves his cup from one hand to the other, slings an arm around her shoulder and leads her down the pier drive. "We're goin' on the ferris wheel."

Charlotte stops short – but only for a second, because Travis doesn't slow his gait, and his arm keeps her movin' forward. "We're what?"

"We're goin' on the ferris wheel."

It's frivolous and silly and exactly the sort of thing he used to do when they were young and freshly in love and had a lot more free time on their hands. She'd be nose-deep in a textbook for one of her online summer courses, and he'd show up and cart her off to the bowling alley, or the amusement park, or the county fair. She shakes her head at him, munches on a chicken strip, and he just grins.

"I already got our tickets, and I know that's not your usual lunch, but it'll have to tide ya. I didn't figure we had time to dawdle before gettin' in line, if we want to get you back to work on time."

"Travis Elijah Evans," she sighs pleasantly, then smirks. "I'd say you never cease to surprise me, but this sort of thing isn't really a surprise comin' from you, now is it?"

"More of a nostalgic throwback," he agrees. "But still good, right?"

"Very good," she confirms, adding, "But you do recall that I already forgave you. You don't have to go doin' stuff like this to get back in my good graces."

"I'm not," he tells her. "I got the idea last week, when I came to your office and realized how close you actually work to the pier. And then I went and messed everything up before I had a chance to talk you into comin' down here with me."

"Ah."

"How was work?"

Charlotte shrugs, mouth full of breaded chicken. He waits while she chews and chews and swallows. "Fine. Average. Nothin' really to speak of."

"Goin' downhill the longer you talk about it," he teases, tipping the cup in his hand toward her in invitation.

She leans in for a sip – Coke – and watches the ice slosh against the lid. She's pretty sure she's the first sip outta there. "This mine, too?" she asks when she's done, and he nods.

"Yes, ma'am. I ate before you got here – figured it'd be easier to walk and eat if you had an extra pair of hands."

She was gonna tease him about bein' thoughtful (and about the fact that he got her his drink of choice instead of hers), but she's just shoved in another bite of chicken. She skipped breakfast this morning – somethin' she's certainly not gonna be admittin' to him, lest she earn herself a lecture – and she didn't realize quite how hungry she was until just now. He seems to notice, too, because he laughs a little at her, and says, "You gonna eat that or inhale it?"

"I'm hungry."

"Guess I should've gotten you fries, too, huh? Well, eat up. You get any skinnier, you'll have to run around in the shower to get wet."

Charlotte can't help snorting a little laugh and shaking her head. "God. That's what they used to say about Duke when we were little. He was such a stringbean."

"You and him both, from the photos I've seen. Y'all take after your momma in that regard, if I recall."

"Yeah. And then there's Landry. Solid and sturdy just like Big Daddy. I ever tell you that when I was five he tried to tell me and Duke we were adopted? Duke was found in a briar patch, and I was left on the doorstep, and couldn't we tell it clear as day, seein' as how we were so puny compared to him."

"Did you believe it?"

"Not for a second, but he got Duke goin' on it for a while. He had this cluster of freckles on his back, and Landry told him they were briar scars from when he was a baby, and that Momma and Big Daddy wouldn't ever tell him because they felt so sorry for him and wanted him to think he'd been wanted."

"Duke never really was the brightest of the King family, was he?" Travis chuckles, and Charlotte shakes her head.

"No, that'd be me. But I put him out of his misery after a few days, had the nanny wrestle up the photo albums from when he was born and show him that he did, in fact, come from the hospital and not the briar patch. He didn't talk to Landry for a whole week afterward."

He chuckles a little, and they lapse into a silence that is mostly comfortable. The lingering tension from the weekend has all but dissipated, and she's able to take a few minutes to just breathe in the ocean air and squint out over the water. The pier is busy, but not packed enough to be a nuisance, and this midday break feels a bit like playin' hookie, but she's findin' herself mostly okay with that. She glances at her watch – 45 minutes before she has to be back.

"Plenty of time," he assures her, and she turns her head to realize he's been watchin' her.

"Just checkin'. You know me – gotta be on top of things."

"Yeah," he mutters, steering her toward the rides. "Control freak, that's what you are."

"Nothin' you haven't always known."

He eyes the snack stand as they pass, and asks if she wants fries after all, but the line's a few people deep, so she declines. She tosses her trash, takes the Coke from his hand, and a minute later they're in line for the ferris wheel, makin' small talk about his work, and the studio, and the gig he has this Friday night.

"You should come. Bring Violet."

"You two get along a little too well," Charlotte tells him, mouth curving wryly. "You're startin' to make me nervous."

She doesn't realize the implication of what she said until his face goes serious, mouth drawing into a frown, and she knows what he's about to say before he even gets the first word out. "Lola, you know I'd never do that to you again."

"I know. I didn't mean that," she assures, reaching over to grasp his hand and give it a little squeeze. It's still icy from the cup he'd been holding. "I meant more along the lines of you two gangin' up on me about stuff. Y'all are both so sure you're right about what other people need now and again, I'd be afraid to see you in cahoots over somethin'. Besides," she squeezes again. "I kinda like havin' you all to myself."

His smile comes back then, pleased and smug. "Well, rest assured, junebug, nobody has my attention like you do. But I still think you should come on Friday. You haven't been out to see me play since that time you came and stalked me without my knowin'."

Charlotte laughs out loud. God, she'd almost forgotten that. Was that only a few weeks ago? "It feels like you've been here for ages," she says, before she can help it, and Travis just shrugs his shoulders.

"I wouldn't call two months ages, but... I am getting' used to bein' here. It just feels like ages because it's you, and it's me, and we're good together. Right?"

She feels another pang of somethin' in her chest – thrill, guilt, a few other emotions she doesn't really want to put a name to yet – and nods a little. "Yeah. Most of the time, we don't suck."

Travis snorts, apparently amused by her, and they're quiet for a moment as a roller coaster rips by overhead. It doesn't take them long to get to the front of the line, and as luck would have it, they're the last car to load. She settles next to him in the pitching, rocking bucket and up they go. Ferris wheels aren't her favorite – it feels a lot like spinning your wheels, all this movement and nowhere to really go. But it's a nice break from the fast pace of the hospital or the constant chatter of the practice, so today she actually finds it pleasant. She looks out over the ocean again, feels the breeze against her face, and smiles. "This view really is awesome, huh?"

"Yeah, it is," he says, but when she turns, the only thing he's looking at is her. He smiles at her then, and reaches over to tuck a few windblown strands of hair behind her ear. "You are so damned pretty," he tells her, and Charlotte rolls her eyes, her smile widening before she can help it.

"I mean it, Lola. Sometimes I look at you and my heart just stops."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling, and there a little flutter in her chest. But on principle, she nudges him with her shoulder, and mutters, "Flatterer."

"Flirt," he corrects, slinging an arm around her again. "But an honest flirt." The breeze blows, and goosebumps bloom over her arms despite the sun, so she settles herself more comfortably against his side, lifts one hand to lace her fingers with his, and takes in the view again. Her face is starting to ache from smiling so hard, but she just can't seem to stop.

After the ferris wheel, he drags her into the arcade.

"I've gotta get back, Trav," she tells him, but she doesn't resist, just lets him pull her along and over to the wall of Skeeball machines.

"Just a couple of games," he insists. "You've got time for a couple of games. Besides, I already got the tokens." Sure enough, he fishes one from his pocket, slips it into the slot and the balls release and tumble down. He picks one up, hands it to her, and grins. "Let go. Have a little fun."

"I am havin' fun," she tells him, and she means it – God, she means it. She can't remember the last time she had this much fun in the middle of the day, unless it involved nudity and a breach of policy that could get her fired. He pops a token in the machine next to her, and dares her to beat his score. She knows she won't; he's always been better at this than her and God knows she hasn't played Skeeball in ages. But she throws herself into it anyway, and does pretty well. Not as well as Travis, who has a long tail of tickets feeding out of the machine by the time they finish three rounds, but well enough. He trash talks her the whole time, taunts her and dares her, and she's laughing and giving back as good as she gets. She's actually disappointed when he checks his watch and sighs, then tears off his tickets and reaches to do the same for her.

"We've gotta get you back," he says, folding the tickets in strips of five. Charlotte's so caught up in the spirit of fun and competition that she wants to be reckless, wants to ask for another game, a quick one, just five more minutes before she's forced to go back to the grind. It's like she's five again, hanging on Big Daddy's leg and begging him to please-pretty-please let her ride the merry-go-round just a little longer before they leave the fair.

But she's not five. She's grown now, and she knows he's right, so she sighs and rolls her eyes. "Fine. I guess. If we've gotta."

Travis laughs, and loops his arm through hers, leads her over toward the far side of the arcade. "C'mon, pretty lady. Time to pick your prize."

"What?"

He points, and she realizes they're headed for the back wall, which is covered in oversized stuffed animals, water guns, and all manner of trinkets. "Oh, you've gotta be kiddin' me."

"No, ma'am. You're not leaving here empty-handed. Can't take a pretty girl to the arcade without winnin' her something."

"Travis, I have to go back to work – and besides, we only played three games each. We've probably barely got enough tickets for a slinky."

He grins at her, that wide, mischievous little boy grin and reaches his free hand into his pocket. It comes back out with a thick stack of accordioned tickets. "I've been here since 10:30."

Charlotte jaw drops a little, her eyes going wide and then she lets out a big, belly laugh she'd almost forgotten she had in her. "Oh, you're crazy. You're insane. Mad as a hatter."

"Nuttier than squirrel shit," he agrees, "But you're worth it. Now c'mon." They've made it almost to the prize counter, and he weaves them through the small crowd of people there until she's right up front. "There's enough here for anything in the case here, or off that shelf and that one. Sadly, I don't have enough to get you the two-foot CareBear."

He's behind her, hands on her hips, and she leans her body back into his and chuckles. "Well, thank God. Can you just imagine me bringin' that back to the practice? I'd never hear the end of it."

He laughs, points at a little sad-eyed plush dog, about halfway up the wall. "How about that one?"

"He looks so sad," she tells him, turning to look at him, and she knew his face would be close to hers, but damn he's just inches away and her heart stutters again. He's got that I-want-to-kiss-you look on his face, and there's a part of her that wants to let him, but her sense of decency is remindin' her that they're surrounded by kids.

"Well, that just because you haven't taken him home yet. It's lonely up there on that shelf."

His eyes flick to her mouth, and she licks her lips, turns away and nods. "Okay. Sad-eyed dog. He can come live with me now."

"Well, alright then. He'll be very pleased." Travis nudges her to the side and drops all their tickets on the counter. A minute later, she has the stuffed toy in her hand, and they're weaving their way back toward the front. They step out into the daylight and Charlotte has to squint against the bright midday sun. Just when she's about to head back toward Santa Monica proper, he grabs her arm and says, "Wait. One more thing."

Then he pushes her into the photo booth a few feet away and squeezes into the tiny space with her. Charlotte just laughs.

She's fifteen minutes late getting back to the practice, and she's a tad frazzled by it, but truth be told there's a part of her that just can't bring herself to care a half stitch. She's got a stuffed dog under one arm, her purse on the other, and she's nibbling at the remnants of a pink cloud of cotton candy, her fingertips sticky and beginning to stain.

She steps onto the elevator, then hears a familiar holler and sticks her foot out just before the doors close. They slide back open and Sheldon steps on. He gives her a once-over and she grins, winks at him, and greets cheerfully, "Good afternoon, Sheldon."

"Well, someone's having a good day," he says as she adjusts the dog under her arm slightly. "That, or you've decided to give up medicine and join the circus."

"Travis had me meet him at the pier for lunch. Cotton candy?" she offers, holding out the last tuft of it, and crumpling the bag a little awkwardly in her hand.

Sheldon reaches over and pulls half of it away, then lifts it toward his mouth, taking the empty bag from her with his other hand.. "Looks like you had fun," he tells her before popping the sugary stuff.

She lets the last bite melt on her tongue, go sweet and a grainy and delicious before she answers him. "Y'know, I really did. We ate crap food, and rode the ferris wheel, and played Skeeball. It was a nice change from the whole fiasco of last week."

"I meant to talk to you about that," Sheldon says, and Charlotte feels her hackles rise.

"Why? Did Violet tell you somethin'?"

"No," Sheldon assures. "Violet didn't say anything to me. But believe it or not, I notice when you're not yourself. And you weren't yourself. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"I'm alright. And I don't really want to talk about it. Suffice it to say, my ex-husband is an ass from time-to-time, but he's an ass I have thoroughly kicked for his crimes, and I'd rather not let it ruin my good mood."

"Well, we'd hate to ruin that," Sheldon agrees. "Happiness looks good on you."

"Oh, don't you start, too," Charlotte warns. "I don't need three guys tryin' to butter me up. Two is plenty, thank you."

"He's wooing you again," Sheldon tells her, and Charlotte shakes her head.

"What?"

"He messed up, and Cooper knows about him now. He's stepping up his game."

"Sheldon..." She wants to tell him he's wrong, but on second thought... Well, at least he's chosen a less offensive way to try to sway her affections this time.

"He took you on the ferris wheel, and won you a stuffed animal in the arcade. You're a photo booth strip away from a cheesy high school first date," Sheldon tells her, before he steps off the elevator and into Pacific Wellcare with a wave goodbye.

Charlotte waves back absently, her mind on the glossy strip tucked into her purse – four photos, black and white. In the first one she and Travis are smiling brightly; the second she's holding up the stuffed dog, both their faces imitating his wide-eyed pout; in the third Travis is making a face, eyes crossed, tongue poked out, and she's turned to look at him, laughing; for the fourth he'd surprised her by turning her head and smacking a kiss right on her lips right as the shutter fired.

Tucked away in a box in her room, there's another one just like it, taken in at Atlanta arcade on their fifth real date.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_I only write under one name, and this is it. So any story on here (or anywhere else on the internet, for that matter) that is not posted under this username was not written by me. I also don't read other authors' reviews unless someone points them out to me. So please, do everyone a favor and don't post comments about my story on other authors' reviews. It's ineffective (because chances are I'm never going to read them, so your complaints aren't going to anyone with any chance of resolving them), and most importantly: it's disrespectful to the people who've put their time and effort and creativity into the stories you read on this site. Comment on their stories. They've worked hard. They've earned it. They deserve more respect than to have people comment on someone else's work instead of their own._


	38. Chapter 38

"Change of plans," Cooper tells her as he meets her at the elevator at 12:20 sharp, little red package in hand.

"Oh?" Charlotte lifts one brow, and smiles, punching the down button.

"Yes." Cooper fiddles a little with the box in his hands. "No Indian – Mexican. You hate the Indian, and I don't want you do sit through it just for me."

Charlotte shrugs a shoulder, but suddenly finds herself about ten times more hungry than she was at the prospect of Indian food. "A little compromise never hurt anyone," she reasons, but then she grins and adds, "But you'll never see me complain about enchiladas and margaritas the size of my face, so..." She steps onto the elevator, and he follows, leaning casually against the wall as she presses the button for the lobby. She turns back and he's lookin' at her – really lookin' at her, in that way he does sometimes that makes her heart flutter. Like she's the only thing in the room, and she supposes right now she is, but it's still enough to make her forget just exactly what she'd meant to be sayin'.

She watches him trail his gaze lazily down from her face to her feet and back up, and shifts her purse a little, fighting the urge to squirm. However well she reacts to charm, there's something about Cooper's lazy heat that just undoes her. She clears her throat a little and asks, "Do I pass muster?"

"Always," he tells her with a smile, bringing his eyes back to her face. "I like that dress."

It's nothing special – lavender, knee-length, hell it doesn't even really show any cleavage. But it's pretty, and serious enough for work without being stuffy, so she'd bought it on a whim a few days ago, when she was still feeling sore over Travis and lookin' for ways to lift her spirits. She smiles and says, "Thank you."

"It's new."

Her smiles widens into a grin, and she nods. "It is."

"Bought it just for me, didn't you?" he teases, and she chuckles at him.

"Oh, definitely," she says, mock-serious. "You know I always think about you when I'm pickin' out clothes."

"You used to," he reminds, and it puts a chink in the easy banter they had started, brings just a little bit more awkward into the room. As if they need help with that lately.

"With the lingerie, yeah, and the, uh, _outfits_." She smirks. "But not so much with the dresses – except that _one_."

"Oh," he groans, collapsing back into the wall a little and shutting his eyes. "Don't bring up that dress if you want us to actually make it to lunch," he warns, and she laughs as the elevator doors open.

"Down, boy," she warns with a smile. "This is just lunch."

"Mmhmm."

He doesn't sound like he quite believes her, so she stops short a few feet from the elevator. "Cooper." He stops, turns to look at her. "I mean it. It's just lunch. There's not gonna be any sneakin' off into the ladies room, or duckin' into one of our offices for a quickie."

"_I know_," he tells her, and this time she believes him. "God, I can't even tease you anymore." He's smiling as he says it, but she thinks he means it, so she makes a mental note to lighten up.

"I'm just not used to havin' to set boundaries with you," she admits as they head for the door, and it's easier not to look at his face right now, so she doesn't.

"So don't," he tells her, predictably.

"I have to."

"Why? Because of him?"

Charlotte sighs. Great. This is _exactly_ the conversation she wanted to have today. But, in his defense, she did walk right into it. "No, because of me – We walkin'?"

"Yeah, it's close enough – unless you'd rather drive?"

"No, no. Walkin' is fine."

They head out into the sunshine and she fishes her sunglasses from her purse as he asks, "If it's not him, then how am I doing on the whole proving-I'm-serious-about-you thing?"

Charlotte gulps a little. It's only been a week since he decided he wanted back in her life, and frankly she's been a bit distracted since then. "Well, um... fine, I guess."

"Wow. That's a ringing endorsement," he mutters, and she closes her eyes behind her shades for a second. This is gonna spiral into a disaster right quick, isn't it?

"It's not like I'm watchin' your every move and judgin' it, Coop. And I've been a bit preoccupied the last week."

"Right. Going into the flower business," he recalls with a shade of bitterness, shifting the red box from one hand to the other. "How's that going for you?"

"Okay, you know what? Fine. You have the next two blocks to ask me anything you want to know, and I'll answer. After that, I want to talk about somethin' else. I don't want to bicker over lunch."

"Are you sleeping with him?" he starts in immediately, and Charlotte whips her head around to look at him, but she can't really fault him, can she? She told him he could ask.

So she takes a deep breath and says, "No. I'm not." It's the truth – they haven't had sex yet. Not really. Just a bit of wandering hands.

"Are you going to?"

She falters a little on that one. "I don't know," she answers, figuring honesty is best. "Not plannin' on it at the moment, but I wasn't plannin' on ever speakin' to him again, so... I don't know." Her voice drops a little when she admits, "I don't know what the hell I'm doin' with either of you right now. Never been stuck like this before."

When he opens his mouth again, his voice is a little softer, too. "How long is he here?"

"Five more weeks."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Five more weeks and then what happens?"

"He goes back to Georgia."

"Are you gonna go with him?"

"What?" She stops short again. "What the hell kind of crazy question is that? Of course I'm not goin' with him."

"Well, how should I know, Charlotte?" He stops too, and they're facin' each other in the middle of the sidewalk now, people passing by on either side. She makes a mental note not to let their voices rise enough to cause a scene. "You're all wrapped up with this guy – your ex-_husband_ – and-"

"I'm not 'all wrapped up with him.'"

"Yeah. You are. And I'm here, wanting you back, and-"

"Which you didn't until he showed up, mind you," she points out. "Wanted nothin' to do with me when I asked you for a drink a couple weeks ago. Blew me off completely, but you see me with another guy and all of a sudden it's 'I want you back' and 'I'm so sorry.' So do you really want me back or do you just not want me with anyone else?" she challenges, and he looks a bit dumbfounded for a second. "I mean, you sabotaged Scott for me-"

"He was a drug addict."

"Yes, he was, but you can't tell me you didn't take some personal satisfaction in takin' away the first guy who showed an interest in me. Because God forbid someone wants me, or tries to make me happy. Meanwhile, you can go paradin' all your conquests through the office like we meant nothin-"

"Hey, I didn't parade," he defended. "You walked in on a private conversation. And we didn't mean nothing, far from it, but c'mon – like you didn't have rebound sex."

"I didn't," she tells him, and he just blinks at her.

"What?"

"I didn't," she repeats. "I don't, Cooper, I'm not... I don't do well with heartbreak, okay? I lick my wounds for a good long while. You may be all about 'gettin' back on the horse' but I'm not. Never have been. The only guys I've been with since you – and by that I mean, in the last two years, since that very first time – are Archer and Sheldon. Archer was a mistake and Sheldon wasn't rebound."

Cooper makes a face. "Oh, please. Sheldon wasn't rebound? Come on, Charlotte."

"He wasn't," she tells him, crossing her arms tightly and lifting her chin. "I didn't sleep with Sheldon to get over you, or to get back at you, or to make you jealous. I slept with Sheldon because he was kind to me. And funny, and respectful, and appreciated me."

"So... you were with Sheldon because you _wanted_ to be?"

"Yes. Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, because he's Sheldon."

Charlotte rolls her eyes and starts walking again, Cooper falling into step with her a second later. "Yeah, he is. He's Sheldon. He's a good guy, and he treats me well, and he wants the best for me – wants what'll make me happy – even if that's not him. I'd still be sleepin' with Sheldon if he didn't think I should be tryin' to make it work with you."

"Wait – what?"

"Yeah, wrap your head around that one," she bites, irritated with him for reasons she can't quite peg. "He broke things off with me, because he knew I was still in love with you, and thought I should try to get you back. And you, meanwhile, were just perfectly over me, back to your old ways-"

"I wasn't over you," he insists, and it mollifies her a little but she'll be damned if she lets it show. He grabs her wrist, halts them again, shoves the box in his back pocket and puts his hands on her shoulders, looking directly into her shades. "Look at me. I wasn't over you. I wasn't over you then, I'm not over you now. I love you. I'm crazy about you. I've spent the last few months just trying to get by, trying to convince myself I was over you because I was too proud and too hurt to work things out. But I was wrong. And I'm sorry."

She drops her gaze, tilts her head down a little, sucks in a breath. Well. That was a long time comin', and that dull ache that's taken up residence in her heart for the past few months eases just a little, but it doesn't keep her gut from churning with anxiety. What the hell is she getting herself into? And how is she supposed to untangle this whole mess?

He slides his hands to her neck, uses his thumbs to tip her chin up. "Charlotte."

She lifts her hands to his wrists, tugs them away gently. "Can we not talk about this in the middle of the street, please?" Cooper lets out a sigh, drops his hands, dejected. She can't stop the impulse to reach out for him, threading their fingers and giving his hand a squeeze. "No, I don't mean – Come over tonight," she tells him, and he perks up a bit, squeezes back. "Come over, and we'll talk, but I don't want to rehash all this crap right now, and I certainly don't want to do it in public. So let's just go to lunch, and not talk about us, or Travis, or any of that stuff. Just stick to safe stuff, neutral stuff. And then tonight, you can come over, and we'll talk out all our stuff. In private. Okay?"

He nods at that, takes a deep breath. "Okay. Yeah. Yes. We can do that."

She nods, forces a smile, and drops his hand to start walking again. He reaches for her almost immediately, lacing their fingers again. "Cooper-"

"Are you dating him?"

She sighs, shakes her head. "I don't know, Coop."

"Well, then I still get to hold your hand," he reasons, and Charlotte just shakes her head and smiles.

"Fine," she acquiesces, tightening her grip a little bit in his, walking close enough that their shoulders bump occasionally. They walk in silence for a block or so before she asks, "So do I ever get to see what's in that box?"

Cooper grins, and reaches back, retrieving it from his pocket and handing it over. "I was gonna wait until we got to the restaurant, but if you're feeling impatient..."

"I am," she tells him with a smile, freeing her hand so she can carefully open the red wrapping and hand it to Cooper. Inside is a white square box just a bit bigger than her hand. She opens it and stares for a second, dumbfounded. She pulls out the contents, and can't help but laugh. "What in the world?" Grey and red striped, knee-high socks, with ALABAMA around the hem. "You got me Crimson Tide socks?" she questions, smile blooming on her face.

"Well, you said I could get you socks if I wanted, as long as it meant something," he explains with a shrug and a grin, and suddenly Charlotte is grinning so hard her face hurts.

"I did, didn't I?"

"Yup."

"And you considered that a personal challenge?"

"Mmhmm." He's looking incredibly proud of himself, smug and smiling and eager, and Charlotte's heart does a dizzy spin in her chest at just the sight of him. God, she's missed him.

She laughs again, for no real reason, laying the socks back in their box and stashing it in her purse. This time, she's the one who takes his hand, and she doesn't let go until they're being seated at the restaurant.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_Sorry for the delay between chapters, folks! I had to go home for a funeral, and went straight from there to vacation, and then had to catch up on everything from when I was gone before I had time to get the next chapter out. But I'm back!_


	39. Chapter 39

Charlotte meets Cooper at the door with a martini already in hand. He tilts his head a little at her, smiling his amusement, and she shrugs. "Figured talks like these go better with a little bit of liquid courage," she explains, and he takes the glass from her, sips from it.

"I've missed these," he says, and she smiles a little, then lets her smirk go naughty as a memory suddenly pops into her head.

"You remember the first martini I ever made you?" she asks, and she knows he'll say yes. It was rather unforgettable.

Sure enough, he gives her an impish grin right back and says, "Do I remember? You were naked and sweaty, had just rocked my world – what? – three times? After saying you wouldn't come home with me in the first place."

She chuckles a little, and smiles as she heads back to the table to make her own drink.

"And then there you were, Dr. Charlotte King, Chief of Staff," he reminisces. "Mixing martinis, naked, in my kitchen. I kinda wanted to pinch myself, but I was afraid I'd actually wake up."

"That night was crazy," she murmurs fondly. "I'd never... We were explosive. Instant chemistry." Charlotte shakes her head. "We've always been good at that – the sex."

He smiles again, but it's just a little dim, and it takes her a second to remember that, no, the last few weeks they were still together, they hadn't been so good at it. The sex, when it happened, had been quick and dirty and rife with tension and all sorts of downward-spiral uneasiness.

"For the most part, yeah," he agrees, before quickly moving ahead, "Look, before we get into all this, can I just say something?"

She nods, turns, leans her hip against the table's edge. "Shoot."

"Um – maybe in the living room?" he asks, gesturing for the couch, and Charlotte nods and scoops up her drink. He talks as they walk. "Do you remember a couple weeks ago, I treated that kid who had pica?"

"Helmet kid? Sure." she asks as she settles on the sofa, Cooper next to her – not so close as to be crowding, but closer than she'd expected. "Hard to forget parents that crazy. "

He snorts, makes a face at her. "Helmet kid? Way to be sensitive."

"Oh, come on. Like you don't have the occasional disparaging nickname for a patient – I know for a fact that you do. I run a hospital - it's the only way to keep em all straight."

"Well, regardless," he draws out, "That's not the point. The point is I realized something while I was treating him - something about me that I don't think I'd realized before."

"That you have a little bit of an oral fixation?" she teases, "Cuz I already knew that."

"Dammit, Charlotte, I'm trying to be serious here. Can you just – listen?"

She sobers, nods, reaches for her drink and takes a sip. "Sorry. "

"Thank you." Cooper takes a deep breath. "Anyway. I was talking to him, after we found out his mom had pica, too, and had kept it from him his whole childhood. And I realized... that there are some things in my past that I thought I was over that I wasn't."

She shifts a little, turns to face him and props her arm behind her head, giving him her full attention. "Things like?"

"Like that I'm an only child, but not a first child," he tells her, and Charlotte sits up a little straighter. That's news to her. "My parents had another son, before me, who died."

"You never told me that," she murmurs, but not without understanding. She's a bit past the point where she can pass any judgment on secret-keeping.

"I didn't tell anyone. Not even Violet, not until I was thinking about it again the other week. The thing is..." He takes a deep swallow from his martini, winces a little at the burn of the alcohol. "They didn't tell me about him."

Oh. She gets it now; she knows where this is going.

"Not until I was way older than I probably should've been, anyway. And when I did finally find out, I didn't take it very well. I thought they'd kept it from me because they didn't want me to know, because they loved him more and I was just... a replacement son."

"Coop..." Charlotte feels her heart break for him, some of the pieces of the last few months falling into place. The way he used to look at her sometimes, wounded and heartbroken. Resentful.

"And I was wrong. I know that now, but for a long time I didn't, and I thought I'd forgiven them and moved past it, but you telling me you were married before... It brought everything back up. I thought you must have kept it from me because you didn't want me to know, because I was a replacement-"

"Coop, no." Charlotte insists, interrupting. "You weren't. It was never like that. I just ... I told you, I was hurting and I didn't know what to do, how much to tell you. But I should've. I should've just been honest with you from the beginning, and if I'd known... If I'd known what we'd become, that I would love you as much as I do, I'd have told you then. But I didn't. I was still too damaged, still too raw. My marriage and divorce were still too much of a wound, and I just wanted to pretend it wasn't there. Pretend I'd never gone through all that, and start over with someone who loved me. You just... You blew me away, Coop. I thought it would never happen for me again, that I'd never feel that spark with someone like I did before, and then I followed you home that night. Fixed you martinis. And then I couldn't stop thinking of you. I was in love with you - stupid, head-over-heels in love - way before you ever knew." She reaches for him, threads their fingers and squeezes hard. "You weren't a replacement, Coop, you were a second chance."

"And now?"

Charlotte swallows down a knot of nerves at the question, takes a sip of her martini. "Now... I don't know, we have a lot of hurt to slog through. And there are things you said that I can't keep from hearing. I'm tryin', but-"

Cooper heaves a sigh, runs his hand through his hair in frustration until he's gripping the back of his neck. "Char, I don't know how many more times I can tell you I didn't mean the things I said in that conference room."

"It wasn't just that last fight, Cooper. It was things you said before, things you said after. You told me you never liked me. Do you remember that? Didn't ever like me. Just sex, and then love, and then hate."

"I didn't mean that. I liked you, you know I-"

"No, Coop, I don't know. You're not the only one who feels like they're bein' left in the dark in this relationship. Not by a long shot. You say you love me, you say you see more in me than anyone else, that you see past the walls to who I really am." She looks down at her martini, back up at him. "But you also say I should 'put my _skills_ to good use' in the office. So you can watch. Like I'm just the whore everyone thinks I am, but I'm your whore, so it's okay?"

"Charlotte, no." He shakes his head, sets his drink down, and cups her shoulders. "I don't think that. I do _not_ think that. I think you're amazing. Smart, and driven, and gorgeous, and sexy as hell. You're not just – I think you're _amazing_, Charlotte."

He's pained enough, desperate enough, that she thinks she believes him. But hell, if they're here to air their laundry, she's gonna make sure she shakes all of this out of her. Purge it all and deal with it, right? So she nods a little and says, "An amazing freak with no friends, right? Trashy little girl, tryin' to please her dead daddy."

"Charlotte-"

"_No_," she interrupts, holding up a hand, using it to push his off her shoulders. "No, I'm gonna repeat it, so you can hear it again. Because I hear it. I wish I didn't, but I do. 'You're just a sex toy I found on the internet. Just a trashy little girl tryin' to please her dead daddy, and I shouldn't have expected much from you. My bad.'" He breaks her gaze, reaches for his glass again and drinks deep. "That's what you said to me, Coop. Now tell me I should know that you liked me."

He fiddles with his glass for a minute, doesn't meet her gaze, then says quietly, "You said I wasn't a man."

She blows out a breath – that's not exactly the response she wanted. "Well, you weren't actin' like much of one that day."

He scoffs a little, but it's tired, and defeated, and lacks heat. His drink ends up back on the table.

"We both said some nasty things that day, Coop, but I didn't say anything I didn't mean. There were some hard truths, some unkind things, but... sometimes fights get ugly. And I don't think you're not a man," she sighs. "But sometimes, Cooper, you don't really act like a grown-up. You blew your salary on expensive things and porn? How much can you be spendin' on porn? _I was right there. _Willin' and able to do every freaky thing you could ever ask for. What the hell do you need thousands of dollars worth of porn for?"

"That was before you," he tells her, and it mollifies her a little bit, although she knows his porn habit didn't die with them getting together. "I spent too much on porn _before you_." He adds quickly and quietly, "And then, y'know, forgot to cancel some of the memberships,"

Charlotte just quirks a brow at him, considering he pretty much just proved her point.

"Okay, yes, I could sometimes be a bit more responsible, I learned that lesson, but that doesn't make it any less painful to have _my girlfriend_ telling me that I'm not a man. After running roughshod over my apartment, and paying my share of-"

"I was trying to _help you_," she cuts in. "You wanted me with you, I moved in with you. But I wanted our place to be _ours_, not just yours – and I paid for the bathroom, anyway."

"Yes, because poor, broke Cooper couldn't."

Charlotte sighs heavily, shakes her head. She hadn't meant for this to turn into an argument. "That's not – Why does the money matter so much anyway, Coop? It's just money."

"It's not _just money_. I'm the man, I'm a man. I'm supposed to be able to take care of my own business, to take care of _you_ and-"

"I don't need you to take care of me."

"Well, maybe I need to!" he damn near hollers, and she's a little startled by the outburst. "Did that ever occur to you? Did you ever think that maybe I _need_ to be the man once in a while? That I need to feel like you need me, and like I can be there for you, and do things like pay for the bathroom that you want?"

"Did it ever occur to you that me payin' for things is the only way I know to take care of _you?_" Charlotte counters, and he looks just a little dumbfounded for a moment.

"What?"

"I don't do it to belittle you, Cooper, or to make you feel like less of a man. I do it because I love you, and because there is so much you want from me that I haven't been able to give. I know that. We both know that. You want more. You want more intimacy, you want more openness, you want more talking, and more connecting, and sometimes I just _can't_. But I can pay for things. I can pay your share of the practice, no problem. I can give you something you need, something tangible. You needed somethin', and I had it. So I took care of you." She's tearing up, just a little, not enough to be called cryin', but enough to feel stupidly emotional. "I took care of you, and you got pissed."

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. Scowls, shakes his head, reaches for her hand and weaves their fingers. "I just –" He sighs. "Thank you. And if you'd said that to me then- Okay, I still would've been pissed. Because you didn't _ask _me, Charlotte. You went behind my back, to my colleagues – my very rich, successful colleagues – and handed them a check for me. You knew I was embarrassed about it, but you went and waved a big 'Cooper's broke' flag all over the office. I mean, God, Char, everyone knew. And I caught crap for it – got ribbed by the guys about being kept."

"I never meant for you to be embarrassed."

"No, because you didn't think, Char. You didn't think, you just did it. Without asking. You should've – If you'd just asked me first. Just given the money to _me_, not Addison and Sam, it would've been different. I'd have been grateful, and gracious, and I wouldn't have felt like a complete tool. Because you were right – I needed the money. It needed to be done; it needed to be taken care of. But it didn't have to be taken care of in public. It didn't have to be taken care of that way."

"Well, then, I'm sorry," she says, giving his hand a squeeze. "In retrospect, I handled it badly. I messed up."

"You humiliated me."

Charlotte's mouth tightens; she was workin' on apologizin' there. "Well, I guess you got even, then. Because if you think the way you treated me after I told you about my marriage – both behind closed doors and in front of your friends – wasn't humiliating?"

"I was a jerk," he admits. "I crossed the line."

"Cooper, you were so far past the line you couldn't even see it in your rear view."

"Alright, I'm sorry! I said I'm sorry, what else do you expect me to do, Charlotte? I can't un-say the things I said, I can't undo what I did, and I don't know what else you want me to do to prove to you-"

"I don't. Cooper... I'm not – I don't – you're not bein' punished for your crimes, okay? I have some firsthand experience at how much that sucks, and I don't want to put you through the wringer like you did me. I love you, and I forgive you, I just need some time right now. And not because of you, not because I'm mad at you, or because I don't believe you're sorry."

"Because of someone else, then?"

It's pointed; she knows it. She ignores it. "Because of me. I've got things that need sortin' out, and I think that right now, I need some help gettin' them sorted. And it's help I can't get from anyone else."

"So what exactly are you two sorting out?"

"Issues." It's vague, but she doesn't care. It's not exactly his business just yet. Someday, yes, but not this day. Not until she knows for sure. "We had a lot of loose ends that needed tyin', I think. Things that never got sorted out when we split. And bein' with him – spending time with him," she amends, because the other way sounds too much like it involves relationships and sex, and that's not really the impression she wants Cooper to have. "It helps sort out some of that stuff. Undoes some of the damage. That's all."

"Do you love him?"

"Do we have to talk about him? We're supposed to be talkin' about us."

He nods, presses his lips together. "Nice dodge."

"Cooper," she sighs, setting her drink aside. Screw it. She'll have to be honest sometime, might as well be now. "I care about him. There's a sort of... nostalgic attachment to this thing that I had – this marriage that I had – and this person that I was. My life was easier then, for the most part. Havin' him around again reminds me of everything that was, and everything that could have been. And I don't know what I feel. I don't know what's real, and what's wishin' we could take back the mistakes we made. Wishin' I hadn't had to feel as rotten as I did, for as long as I did. But I know that he's leavin' – I _know_ that, Cooper. He's not stayin'; I won't let him."

He looks up at that, hang-dog look turning into something a little more attentive. "You won't let him," he repeats.

"No. I won't. His life isn't here, and my life isn't there. And I have other things here." She gives him a pointed look. "Unfinished, unsorted things. Things I'm not ready to give up on quite yet. But right now, I just need... time. Not because of you, or because of us, just... for me. I'm not ready to dive back into you and me, yet. I'm... distracted."

"And, what? I'm just supposed to wait?"

It sounds awful, she knows it does, but she gives a little shrug, and nods her head. "For now, yeah. For a little bit. I mean, it'd be nice."

"And if I don't want to?"

Charlotte smooths her hands over her thighs, breathes in and then out. "Cooper. Please. Don't try to force my hand on this. I'm askin' you for time."

"I've given you-"

"More time. I'm askin' you for _more_ time."

He just looks at her for a minute, then lets out a resigned breath. "This sucks, Charlotte."

She can't help it, one side of her mouth lifts in a little smile. "I know. And I'm sorry."

"He's here for another month?"

"Mmhmm."

"Fine," he mutters, "Come here." And then he reaches for her, tugs her into a hug. Charlotte lets her arms wrap around him, and when he starts to pull back, she gives in to the impulse to hold on a little longer. Cooper relaxes back into the embrace, and she tucks her nose against his neck, breathes deep to take in the familiar smell of him. His hand rubs up her back, then down again, and he whispers, "I miss you."

Charlotte lifts her head just enough to see him, and he brings one hand up to tuck a few locks of hair behind her ear. "I miss you, too. More than you know."

He smiles a little, but it's a sad smile, and Charlotte takes note of the fact that neither of them has bothered to pull away yet. They're still only inches apart, so close she can see the darker flecks in his so-blue eyes, can smell the tang of gin on the breath he lets out.

Suddenly, she knows where this is going, and her stomach does a quick somersault.

Bad idea, she thinks. Bad idea, will only cause more drama, more confusion, more...

Her heart thuds hard, twice, as those blue eyes get closer, so close they begin to blur. They come together almost in slow-motion, and their lips are only a whisper apart when the front door rattles open. Charlotte jerks back like she's been burned, putting a safe distance between herself and Cooper as Violet starts in on some tangent about Pete, and lawyers, and-

Violet falls silent, suddenly, spying the two of them on the sofa. Charlotte and Cooper are still staring at each other, and Charlotte feels her breath coming fast, like they'd been making out for minutes instead of cockblocked a second from liplocking.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks carefully, and Charlotte scrambles to her feet, shaking her head.

"Nope. Nothin' at all. Y'know, I could really use some water." She's overly-bright and she knows it, but hell, it's not like she'll be able to slip this one past Violet anyway. "Why don't you catch him up on…whatever you were talkin' about, while I go rehydrate?"

She doesn't even wait for an answer before she heads for the kitchen, beelining for the faucet and yanking it on. She doesn't reach for a glass, though, not right away. Just props her palms on the sink's edge, watches the water run, and mutters, "Shit."

This whole thing gets more complicated by the day.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_Writer's block is a bitch, made only marginally better by being stuck there with friends. To my readers: Thank you for your patience, and I will try to crank 'em out faster from here on out. To my fellow blocked writer(s): may your words come swiftly and sweetly, and your characters be cooperative._


	40. Chapter 40

**Author's Note: **_Turns out my August and September were insanely busy, and I am just now finding time to write again. But I'm hoping to finish this story up in the next few weeks, so stay tuned!_

* * *

Sheldon is forty-five minutes late to meet Charlotte for drinks on Wednesday night - late enough that she thinks he may have actually stood her up. But then, there he is, making his way toward the quiet corner table she's nabbed for them, looking harried and apologetic.

"I'm so sorry," he tells her as he slides into the space across from her. "I passed a wreck on the way here and-"

"You stopped to counsel everyone through the trauma?" she asks, one brow raised.

"No," he answers slowly, and she remembers that sometimes her teasing and her derision aren't too far apart. "People were rubbernecking; traffic was awful."

"Relax, I was kidding with ya," she assures, taking a sip of her 7-and-7 before adding, "Although it doesn't hurt to call a girl and let her know you're runnin' behind. Lest she be left thinking she's been

left out in the cold by one of the few men in her life not driving her batty lately."

He winces, holds up his cell. "Phone's dead. The battery is going and I forgot to bring my charger."

Charlotte smirks. "Well, you're just havin' a hell of a day, aren't ya?"

"Oh, I don't know." He gives her one of those sweet and charming smiles he's good at, and she finds herself smiling back. "It's not so bad. I get to spend my evening with a beautiful woman, sharing drinks and conversation."

Charlotte cuts him off right there, raising a finger and lifting her brows at him. "Don't you flirt with me, Sheldon Wallace. We've been over this. We had our time, and it passed. Havin' two men try to woo me right now is more than enough; a third might kill me."

"Not wooing," he assures. "Just speaking the truth."

She can tell he means it, so she lets her smile creep back. "Well, in that case, thank you."

"But while we're on the subject of your love life," Sheldon continues, "How's that going for you? The whole Cooper vs. Travis thing. "

"Ugh," Charlotte groans, reaching for her drink again and lifting it toward her mouth. "Complicated," she says before she sips. "So complicated, in fact, that I'm declaring a moratorium on all Travis or Cooper related talk for the rest of the evening."

Sheldon frowns at her. "I thought that was why you wanted to go out? To talk about things?"

"God, no," Charlotte corrects. "I wanted a break. If I have to spend another night stewing over how I feel and what I want and what I can and can't have, I'll go batty. This is a distraction."

"I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or offended."

"Flattered. You're good company. Easy to talk to, and not many people are for me. You know that."

"Then I'm definitely flattered." He calls out his drink order to a passing waitress, and then turns his attention back to her. "So. What do you want to talk about, if not your love life."

Charlotte shrugs. "Whatever comes to mind? Current events? Sports? The weather? You have any completely off-their-rocker patients whose confidentiality you'd like to violate for my entertainment?"

"Wow. That desperate, huh?"

"Yes. Can't escape it at work, because Cooper is there. Can't get away from things at home, because Violet corners me in the kitchen and tries to get the dirt on everything, and I can't tell if she's doing it to be a friend for me or a spy for Cooper." She reaches for her drink again. "I just keep tryin' to steer the conversation toward Pete and the custody battle."

"How's that working out?"

"Pretty well, so far." She sips, sets the drink back down and skims the crowd with her gaze while she adds, "For me, anyway. Violet, on the other hand, is nervous. She's fightin' at a disadvantage and she knows it, thinks Pete's likely to fight dirty and bury her, and worried Naomi won't make it back in time to testify on her behalf, and she's gettin' the distinct impression that her friends are havin' to weigh their loyalty against their conscience and not in a way that benefits her."

"Well, I'd say that's a valid fear," Sheldon answers, and Charlotte shoots and accusatory glare his way.

"Oh, don't tell me you're gonna turn tail on her and testify for Pete. Because I will have your head on a platter if you do."

"I didn't say that – and when did you become her protector, by the way? You'd think after the history you two have-"

"Her best friend dumped me, booted me out on my ass, and as soon as she found out I was livin' out of my office – temporarily, mind you, I'd've found a place of my own before too long – she opened her home to me. Knowin' it would cause a rift between her and Cooper, knowin' that the two of us tend to get along about as well as cats and swimmin' pools." She hesitates for a second, swirls her straw in her glass, before adding carefully, "And she did it under the guise of wantin' martinis and not, y'know, wantin' to help me, or wantin' to have someone around so both of us could be a little less lonely. Which meant I could accept her offer without feelin' like an idiot, or an invalid, or a charity case." She shrugs a little and finishes with. "I owe her. She was an ally when I needed her, and I'll be one for her now."

"Do you believe she's ready?"

"I believe in second chances. And hell, Violet's barely even had a first chance."

"True, but that was her choice. She chose not to have a first chance with Lucas."

"She _chose_ to?" Charlotte questions, eyes narrowing, hackles rising. "Violet didn't choose any of this. She was supposed to be a mother, and it was supposed to be wonderful, and then the world had other plans. Left her standin' there with her life in shambles, expected to pick up all the pieces and move on. She did the best she could, considering what she'd gone through."

"Ah."

He has that knowing look on his face, and it makes Charlotte just a little uneasy. "What?"

"You identify with her."

"What?" Charlotte shifts a little in her chair, her brow wrinkling as she frowns. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"On some level, you equate Violet losing what she perceived as her ability to mother with you losing the chance to do the same all those years ago. You did the best you could to pick yourself up and move on, considering what you'd gone through, and you want her to have the chance to do the same."

Charlotte's veins go icy, and she casts a furtive glance around. Like the room's got ears or somethin', and is gonna overhear her painful secrets – which is ridiculous, but this is most certainly not a subject she wants to discuss in public. And he's wrong anyway. "Don't be ridiculous," she tells him, straightening her spine a little and bobbing ice cubes in her drink with the straw. "It's not that."

"You're sure?"

"I'm damned sure, Sheldon." She takes a deep swallow, winces as little as it goes down, then hisses, "And my miscarriage isn't up for discussion in the middle of a crowded bar. It's just... Violet and I had a conversation, the day she gave the baby to Pete. Everyone had been talkin' at her, but let's face it – none of you wanted to hear the truth. Truth was, she was a mess. And a kind of mess that couldn't be fixed by pushin' her out of the nest, or talkin' things out, or confrontin' what happened to her. Lucas couldn't heal her; he was just makin' her worse. There were all these expectations piled on her to be something she couldn't be – not then. She was a victim. She was traumatized. She needed to work through all that on her own, and until she did, until she came to terms with what happened to her, she wasn't fit to parent. She knew it, and she took the steps to make sure her baby was cared for, and wanted, and far enough out of her reach that the crazy she was goin' through couldn't cause him any real harm. If you ask me, she oughta be gettin' a medal for makin' the hard choice, for walkin' away when she knew it was best. Instead we're punishin' her for it. If she says she's ready, I believe her."

Sheldon shrugs, then smiles in that way that makes her feel like she's been played just a little. Then he says to her, "I'm inclined to agree with you."

Charlotte raises one brow. "So you're just lettin' me justify this whole thing for you, why? For shits and giggles?"

He shrugs again, and that little smile widens into a grin, and damnit if Sheldon Wallace doesn't possess one hell of an infectious grin. "Well, you wanted to find something to pass the time, right?"

Charlotte shakes her head, and scoffs out a laugh. "Yeah, I guess I did."


	41. Chapter 41

It's Friday night, and Sheldon finds himself out with Charlotte for the second night that week. Only this time, they're not alone. Violet's with them, enjoying a welcome break from the stress of the upcoming custody hearing. They've put a moratorium on the topic for the evening – as well as on the topic of Charlotte's relationship troubles, again – and the three of them have had a pretty pleasant night, overall. The band Travis is playing with is good, and he'd reserved them a table close enough to the stage for a clear view, but not so close that the speakers blast their ears off. There's a plate of nachos half decimated on the table between them, and they're each starting on their second drink of the night.

The current topic of conversation: reviving the Safe Surrender program at Oceanside.

"It's an important program," Charlotte insists, "but I'm understaffed. One of my go-to docs moved to Fresno all of a sudden, to take care of his dying mother, another just had a baby of her own, six weeks early. I'm still lookin' for replacements, so my doctors are pickin' up slack as it is. I can't exactly ask my on-call docs to leave in the middle of the night for a baby run, not when I've got a hospital full of patients who might need 'em."

"I think it's a great idea," Violet agrees, "Bring it up at the next morning meeting – I know Cooper would go for it, and Addison. Hell, I'll volunteer myself as soon as this whole custody business with Pete is sorted out."

"And I know you and Naomi aren't the best of friends," Sheldon cuts in, "But she'd go for it in a heartbeat; I know she would. You should talk to her about speaking at one of our meetings, too. I can think of at least three doctors at Pacific who'd probably volunteer."

Charlotte hesitates for a second, and then adds, "My relationship with Pacific Wellcare is a bit, uh… tenuous at best," she reminds him. "I think I burned a few bridges there when I was in charge."

"There's been some restaffing, and besides, it isn't about you, it's about saving babies."

She makes a face at him, but she doesn't say anything, so he knows he's got her there.

As Charlotte takes another sip of her drink, Violet says, "So that's settled, then. We'll talk about it on Monday, and get the program running back at it's full potential. Problem solved. What can we fix next?"

Sheldon chuckles at her – Violet seems to be thrilled with any problem she can tangibly solve, today. It makes sense, considering that her future is up in the air right now. Having something she can tackle and resolve probably helps dull the ache of uncertainty a bit. "Want to tackle world hunger?" he teases. "We're on a roll, after all."

Suddenly, Charlotte perks up, her gaze sharpening on something across the room. And then her eyes go big, and her jaw drops down. "No," she breathes, and then she's grinning so wide it looks like her face might split open, and Sheldon's pretty sure he's never seen her so happy.

He turns his head in an attempt to see what's warranted this kind of reaction, and catches sight of an equally huge grin on another blonde heading toward them. This one is tall and willowy, and Sheldon thinks she and Charlotte could easily pass as sisters, or at the very least, cousins, with the same blonde hair and light eyes. She practically bounces as she rounds the table and crushes Charlotte in a huge hug. Sheldon and Violet exchange slightly incredulous looks, although Sheldon's pretty sure he knows who this is.

Charlotte is muttering something too low for him to hear across the table, and then they break apart, and the other woman responds, "We are, but I have exactly two days off, and I'm spendin' the night between 'em here with you, buttercup." She's got the same Southern drawl as Charlotte – or what Sheldon imagines Charlotte's drawl would sound like if she hadn't let it harden around the edges, and she looks a bit less refined. Her hair is the same color as Charlotte's, but it falls to her shoulder in messy waves – bedhead, he's pretty sure is the word for it – and she's casual in jeans and boots, and a snug cotton tank under a fitted leather jacket. There's barely a stitch of makeup on her, and she's pretty, but not so much that she'd turn your head on the street.

But she's got Charlotte all riled up, and they're chatting like magpies, the other occupants of the table completely forgotten. Sheldon takes full advantage of the opportunity to just watch, glimpsing a side of Charlotte that's about as foreign to him as Swahili. They're talking fast, in sentences that never quite seem to make it to their endings:

"Did Trav put you up to-"

"Sweetie pie, nobody puts me up to anything; you know that. And do you honestly think I'd need to be _put up to_ stopping by to-"

"No, no, I don't. It's just – you never said anything, and you show up-"

"And when could I have said anything? Not like someone has _called me_ lately."

"Hey now, we've talked more in the last few months than in the last year and a half combined."

"Well, that's certainly true. But you shut up right when all the juicy stuff started happenin', I'm sure, so I'm here to collect on my gossip."

Violet, apparently, has grown tired of the sidelines, because she extends a hand right into the space between the two blondes, and greets, rather pointedly, "Hi, I'm Violet. And you're right, things are getting pretty good around here."

"Violet!" Charlotte snaps, whapping her hand away while the other woman just laughs.

"Well, in her defense, I have been standin' here for Lord only knows how long, and you haven't bothered to introduce me to your friends. Some Southern manners you've got, huh?" She winks playfully at Sheldon and he feels himself flush unwittingly, and just hopes the dark lighting of the bar covers for him.

"Oh, this is gonna be a treat," Charlotte mutters, her face melting back into it's familiar scowl, but there's a giddiness in her eyes that betrays how good she's really feeling right now. "You gonna be pickin' on me all night?"

"You bet your butt."

Charlotte rolls her eyes, but the grin breaks through again, and she waves a hand between the three of them. "Jennifer Holloway, Sheldon Wallace, Violet Turner. Vi, Sheldon, Jen."

"Ah." Jen arches a brow with interest and gives Sheldon a slow perusal, and he suddenly feels like she knows way more about him than she's comfortable with. "Nice to meet you both."

"Likewise," Sheldon replies, adjusting his collar and then reaching out his hand to shake hers.

"Wait – your friend, Jen? From Georgia?"

"The very same," Jen confirms, finally giving Violet that handshake Charlotte had denied them before. "And you're Cooper's Violet."

"Well, I'm... my own Violet," she mutters, looking just a little awkward before frowning at her. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"You listen to a lot of country music?" Jen asked.

"None at all."

"Then you're thinkin' Joan Holloway, _Mad Men_."

Charlotte smirked, finishing a sip of her drink and not batting an eye when Jen lifted the glass from her hand and took a sip of her own. "Jen's a musician, and a rather successful one at that." She took the drink back, and sipped again before adding, "Speaking of, you gonna get up there and serenade us for a few numbers?"

"Oh, Lord, no," Jen replies with a shake of her head, slinging her arm around Charlotte's shoulder – and it's not until then that Sheldon notices they're a chair short, and the place is packed. He scans the room for any empties, but no luck. He's just about to offer her his seat when she adds, "I'm here just for you. In fact, I was hopin' I could steal you away from your friends, have a little girls' night…?" Jen looks questioningly at Sheldon and Violet. "Y'all wouldn't find it terribly rude if I stole your date, would ya?"

"Oh…" Charlotte looks between the two of them, then glances at the stage, and Sheldon can see the conflict on her face. It's the first time she's been out to see Travis, he knows, and he and Violet are really here for her as much as the music, but he knows her well enough to know a girls night is probably exactly what she needs. "Do you mind?" she asks her friends.

Sheldon looks at Violet, who looks at him, and nods. They turn to Charlotte in unison and order, "Go."

"You sure?" she asks, but she's already reaching for her purse, fishing out bills.

"Of course," Sheldon assures, adding, "Violet and I will keep each other company."

"Great." Charlotte smiles, throws a couple of twenties onto the table. "That should be more than enough for me. You'll tell Travis what happened?"

"Yes, yes, go," Violet urges, and she and Sheldon both watch the two women walk away from the table, then look back at each other. "Is it just me," she asks, "Or does this whole Charlotte-reliving-her-past thing make you feel kind of like you're living in bizarro world sometimes?"

Sheldon looks around, takes in the club, the band onstage, Violet sitting across from him. Then, he considers the custody battle, Naomi and Maya and the baby, Addison and Sam, Addison and Pete, his own affair with Charlotte, and he answers, "I'm pretty sure we were already there."


	42. Chapter 42

"I still can't believe you called Travis," Charlotte scolds as Jen tips the room service waiter and shuts the door behind him.

Jen just shrugs, then reaches down to unzip her boots, her coat already discarded in the front closet. "Who else was I supposed to call to arrange a little surprise visit?"

"I'm still tryin' to wrap my head around you decidin' to come here at all," Charlotte tells her from her perch on the arm of the sofa. Jen splurged on a four-star hotel room for the night, and Charlotte thinks the bathroom alone is worth the coin they're spendin' on the place. She's almost tempted to see if she can book it for another night, and hole up here for the whole weekend. A few days to herself might do her good.

"Char, if you call me this many times within a few weeks' time, I know you can probably do with more than a BlackBerry to lean on. And with the tizzy Travis seemed to be in over you when I called, it seemed like there might be a bit of a crisis situation that needed tendin' to."

Charlotte quirks an eyebrow at her. "He was in a tizzy?" When Jen yanks her tank top over her head as well, the brow rises even further. She lets her voice slide into a teasing drawl to ask, "You got special plans for us tonight, Ms. Holloway?"

"Indeed I do," Jen replies saucily, unhooking her belt as she heads from the seating area to the bedroom. "You just sit tight," she hollers back.

"You'd better not do anythin' to sully my pristine virtue," she taunts in return, rising from the sofa and heading for the side table, where their handbags are slumped together. She fishes her phone from her purse, and scrolls through the messages. She figures Travis has hit his set break by now, and sure enough, there's a text from him: "Have fun w/ Jen tonight. See u tmrw?"

She texts back, "Maybe, we'll see," and by the time she finishes, Jen is on her way back into the room, in nothing but her skivvies. Not that one could tell to look at her, because she's half buried under the plush white material slung over one shoulder, clutching a wad of fabric in her other hand.

"Your virtue isn't all that pristine, missy," she tells her, before dumping the white material – robes, Charlotte realizes – onto the sofa. She tosses some of the fabric in her hand at Charlotte, and Charlotte recognizes it suddenly as a camisole and pajama shorts. Her cami and shorts.

"Where the hell did these come from?" Charlotte frowns, entirely unsurprised when Jen strips out of her bra and tugs on the last piece of fabric left in her own hands – a long t-shirt that comes down just low enough to cover her ass.

"I told you, I called Travis," Jen shrugs. "Had him throw together an overnight bag for ya while your back was turned. You and I are gonna sit here, in these fluffy hotel robes-" She picks one up, and shrugs into it, belts it around her waist. "Drink wine, eat cake, and talk about boys."

"What are we, twelve?" Charlotte asks, but she doesn't hesitate to strip down and change as well.

"Honey, if a twelve year old can afford this room, she's gettin' way too much allowance money."

Charlotte smirks at that, pulling the cami over her head and reaching for her robe. "If you think that's true, you haven't spent enough time in L.A."

"I've spent plenty," Jen assures her, pouring them each a glass of wine, and uncovering the three dessert plates they'd ordered.

"What've we got?" Charlotte asks, after she's wrapped up in her own robe and settled on one side of the sofa.

"Chocolate lava cake a la mode – which is meltin' fast, so we'd better tuck into it – raspberry swirl cheesecake, and chocolate-covered strawberries, since you insisted on some kind of healthy, fruit-like item."

Charlotte snorts. "Chocolate-covered strawberries, the epitome of health."

"Hey, you asked for fruit, I got us fruit," Jen shrugs, handing Charlotte a glass and settling onto the other end of the sofa. Charlotte sips, and wonders for a second at the wisdom (or lack thereof) of drinkin' red wine on an ivory couch, in a white robe. She makes a mental note to cut herself off if they start gettin' sloppy, then sets her glass carefully on the coffee table, with the desserts.

She reaches for a spoon, leans in close to the table and digs into the lava cake.

As she does, Jen says, "And to answer your question, yes, he was in quite a tizzy. Asked me to please talk to you, and get you to talk to him, and I asked him what boneheaded thing he did this time to earn himself the silent treatment, and he said somethin' about you takin' somethin' the wrong way, and not listenin' to him that mornin', and could I just call you up and get you to _talk_ to him. I told him no, but that I'd stop by between Vegas and Santa Fe and if you hadn't worked things out by then, I'd make you open your yap to me, at least."

Charlotte just shakes her head. "Well. Suffice it to say, he was an ass, did somethin' spectacularly boneheaded. I didn't speak to him for several days, then I spoke quite a bit to him, and now we're settled."

"You're not gonna tell me what he did?"

Charlotte sighs. "I told him Cooper wanted me back, and the next mornin' I woke up with Travis doin' all sorts of lovely things to me, which I reciprocated, because it'd been weeks since I'd had sex, and I'd told him we'd see where things went between us, and truth be told I've wanted to hop on him since his birthday. Probably earlier, if I'm bein' honest."

"I'm gonna let you get to the part where he does somethin' boneheaded," Jen interrupts, "And then we're gonna go back to this whole Cooper-wants-you-back business."

"Oh yeah, we'll get to that," Charlotte assures with a shake of her head. Lord, there's a lot to catch up on. "Anyway, I wake up to him kissin' all up on me, hands under my shirt, and we fool around a little bit – no sex, we haven't had sex yet, I'm not that far off my rocker – and then I went to shower and realized that all those lovely kisses he was givin' me when I woke up left me with a smatterin' of hickeys. Rather obvious ones. Y'know, to mark his territory, so Cooper would know we were shackin' up."

Jen rolls her eyes. "Jesus, that man's dumb as rocks sometimes."

"Exactly. So I went off on him, yelled all sorts of stuff, stormed out and didn't speak to him for days. Scared the hell out of him; he sent me a whole garden's worth of flowers, then finally showed up and groveled, and we talked a bit, and I forgave him, and now he's bein' very well-behaved, on account of him wantin' me to give us another chance."

"Are you gonna?"

"Give it another go with Travis?"

"Mmhmm."

"I don't know, Jen," Charlotte sighs, reaching for her wine again. "These stupid men have me all turned around lately. Don't know whether I'm comin' or goin' half the time, no clue what I want to do about either of 'em."

"Tell me about Cooper," Jen orders, spooning up a drippy spoonful of cake and ice cream, and shoveling it in none-too-gracefully.

"He saw me with Travis, found out my ex was sniffin' around me again, got pissed as hell. We had a big fight, I told him about the divorce, and the miscarriage, and the cheatin', and all that, and…" She shrugs, takes a deep swallow. "He's sorry, he wants to work it out and get back together. Which is exactly what I wanted, too, until things started goin' further with Travis, and now I have no clue what I want. I just know that I can have either one of 'em, but not both of 'em, and I feel like whichever one I choose, I've gotta give up the other, and the thought of that…" She looks at Jen, shakes her head, and finally speaks the truth she's been avoiding putting a voice to for so long: "I love 'em both, Jen. I don't know how it happened, but I'm in love with both of 'em, and the idea of havin' to give one up for the other… I don't want to make that choice."

"Well, you're gonna have to, eventually," Jen tells her, and Charlotte knows it's true, but she still doesn't want to think about it. "You know that, right, baby girl?" Charlotte nods, stuffs her face with more chocolate. "So what's the deal right now? You're with…?"

Charlotte wrinkles her brow, shakes her head. She's not entirely sure how to answer that one. "I've been spendin' nights with Travis, but it's not gonna go anywhere real. He's leavin', and I'm stayin', and there are things about me he doesn't know and probably wouldn't like if he did… So I don't know if we're really 'together' or not. And the night before last, if not for the Violet's spectacularly bad timin', I'd have been makin' out with Cooper on her couch."

"So you're just bein' kind of a hussy right now, is that it?" Jen asks her, not without humor, but Charlotte still levels her with a glare.

"It's not funny, Jen. My life's a mess."

"Well, pardon me for sayin' it, but it seems to be a mess you've gotten your own self into, and you're gonna have to get your own self out."

"You think I don't know that?" Charlotte asks her, reaching for a strawberry. "And it's not like I planned this – I had no idea when I called Travis that he'd be here, in town, and that seein' him would end up with us all moony-eyed over each other again. And when I started seein' him, I was all hung up on Cooper, who I thought would never come around. Then he flew off the handle about Travis, and I thought for sure it was the final nail in the coffin for us, so I figured, y'know, why not give things another go with Travis. And then, boom – the next day, Cooper wants me back. Wanted nothin' to do with me for months, and it's gotta be then that he starts takin' an interest again."

"Maybe he's just jealous," Jen suggests, reaching for the last bite of lava cake as Charlotte finally bites into her strawberry. "Can't stand the sight of you with another guy, so he's gettin' you all riled up and hopeful."

"No," Charlotte mutters, before swallowing. "I thought, y'know, maybe, but no. I know Cooper, and he really is sorry, and really does want to make things work. And I want that, too – I really do. I miss him. I miss him bein' goofy and childish, and I miss the sex – God, do I miss the sex. The sex was amazing. And I just miss… him. I miss bein' with him, I miss the way he made me feel – when he wasn't makin' me crazy."

"So, if that's what you want, what's the problem?" Jen asks. "You said yourself that you and Trav aren't goin' anywhere serious. So stop shackin' up with him and work things out with Cooper."

Charlotte frowns at that. "It's not that simple."

"I don't see why not."

"I thought you wanted me to work things out with Travis," Charlotte says, sharply, then curses as a hunk of chocolate falls from her strawberry to the pristine white of her robe. She picks it up gingerly and pops it in her mouth as Jen answers, then bites into what's left of the berry.

"In a perfect world – my perfect world, the thing that'd be best for me? Yeah, of course. Work things out, move back home; you've got family in Georgia, Char. People who love you, and miss you, and would gladly take you back with open arms. I'd get to see you more than once a year, and you'd be with a man who treats you well and makes you happy." Charlotte tosses the stem of her strawberry onto the plate, and Jen reaches for her hand, waits until she has her full attention. "But Charlotte, if he's not what you want… If you want to be with Cooper, if you think it'll make you happy, if you really don't want to move back home… Then what I want doesn't make a damned bit of difference, baby. It's your life, not mine."

Charlotte nods, blows out a breath. That was entirely unhelpful. "I'm not done with Travis yet."

"Enjoying the sexcapades?" Jen teases with a waggle of her brows, grabbing a strawberry of her own.

"_No_," Charlotte drawls. "I told you, we're not havin' sex."

"Why the hell not? I have vivid memories of you ravin' about his skills in the sack back when you were married; I still can't figure out why you haven't done it now. I mean, I understood when you were first seein' each other, but it's been months. I think you're allowed a little happy naked time at this point."

"Oh, we have happy naked time," Charlotte assures. "Just no sex."

Jen just raises her brows, as if waiting for an explanation.

Charlotte opens her mouth to speak, changes her mind, then looks hard at Jen for a second. She's about to say somethin' she hasn't really put into words yet, somethin' she's almost ashamed of even thinkin'. "Okay. The truth is… I know how Travis feels about women like me. Women who have a whole lot of sex with a whole lot of people. And I feel like…" She shakes her head, takes a deep breath. "He wouldn't want me like he does now if he knew. So havin' sex, knowin' he doesn't know… it feels like lyin' to him. Like I'm deceivin' him into thinkin' he's with someone he's not. But if it's not sex, if we're just foolin' around… it's different."

Jen's gone from a raised brow to lookin' at her like she's just plum stupid. "That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"It is not!"

"Charlotte, if that man has a problem with how many guys you've been with, then you shouldn't be with him at all."

"_You_ have a problem with how many guys I've been with," Charlotte points out.

"No, I have a problem with the reasons you've been with some of those guys. But I'm not tryin' to have sex with you, so that's neither here nor there."

"I don't…" Charlotte lets out a frustrated noise, swigs her wine and shakes her head. "This is ridiculous. The man makes me feel ridiculous, Jen! I'm me – Charlotte King. Charlotte, this-is who-I-am,-take-it-or-leave-it,-if-you-can't-handle-it,-too-bad King. And I'm sittin' here frettin' over what he's gonna think if he finds out who I really am. How he's gonna look at me, whether he's gonna judge me. I hate this!"

"I'd say that should help make your decision for you, but then I remember havin' a conversation not unlike this one about you not havin' told Cooper you were married."

"Yeah, and look how well that turned out for me."

"Well. For what it's worth, I think Travis would surprise you on this one. You may have a few notches in your headboard, but you're still you. He's not gonna boot you to the curb for gettin' busy with a lot of guys after he was gone."

"And if he does?"

"Then, problem solved. He makes your decision for you, and you patch things up with Cooper."

Charlotte makes a face. "Cooper's not sloppy seconds, Jen. And he's already worried that he's just a replacement for Travis; how do you think he'd feel if I went to him and said, 'Oh, my ex doesn't want me anymore, so you and I are a go.'?"

"Well, I'd advise against phrasin' it like that." Jen grabs another strawberry, shifts a little on the sofa. "What are you tellin' him now?"

"That I need time. That I have some things I need to work out with Travis, and I need the time to do that, and that Travis will be gone in a few weeks, and if he can just wait until then, we'll work things out after."

Jen looks hard at her for a second, blinks a few times, and Charlotte's suddenly feeling a bit more judged that she'd like. "You seriously asked him to wait until the other guy leaves?"

Charlotte shrugs a little. "Yeah…"

"Just hang out, enjoy the late spring weather, watch you hangin' around with your ex for a while, and then when he leaves, it'll all be hunky-dory?"

Charlotte has a feeling she knows where this is going. She looks more at her drink than her friend as she replies, "Yes."

"And you think that's _not_ gonna make him feel like sloppy seconds?"

Charlotte doesn't answer, just presses her lips together and fiddles with the stem of her wine glass.

"You're bein' selfish," Jen tells her, and Charlotte's gaze flicks up to meet hers, sharpening into a glare as it does. "You are," Jen tells her again. "If you really do have things you want to work out with Travis, then work 'em out. If you think you might want to try again with Travis, then try again. But if you don't, if you're not willin' to make that change in your life for him, or let him make it for you, if you're just tryin' to have your cake and eat it too… Then you need to put on your big girl panties, Charlotte, and make your choice. Because it's not fair to Cooper, if he's what you want. It's not fair to that man to watch you go traipsin' around with another guy for, what? Another month? To just keep him on the hook and expect him to be okay with it, that's not fair. It's selfish. And if you love him, and he's what you want-"

"I don't know what I want."

"Oh, heavens to Betsy," Jen groans, reaching for her own drink. "Then I don't know how to help you, baby girl. You've gotta figure that out first. If you've got all the cards laid out on the table, and you still can't see which hand to play… there's nothin' I can do to make it better for you."

"Y'know, you're usually a lot better at makin' me feel like less of a heel by the time we finish talking," Charlotte grumbles, reaching over and nabbing the plate of cheesecake. She pulls it into her lap and figures it's still within arms' reach if Jen wants it.

"Well, we're far from done," Jen says in return. "Maybe by the end of the night you'll feel better."

"Or maybe I'll just feel worse. Talkin' about this hasn't made it any better before now."

"Maybe you're talkin' to the wrong people." Sure enough, Jen reaches over and scoops up a heaping spoonful of cheesecake. "Not that your friends here aren't good folk, because I'm sure they're just lovely. But they don't know your history like I do." She takes the bite, then closes her eyes and makes a little sound of pleasure. "Good Lord, that's delicious. You gonna eat it or just prop it up, because if you're not interested…"

"I'm eatin', I'm eatin'," Charlotte mutters, digging into the cheesecake. Her bite is significantly daintier than Jen's, but no less delicious. They devour half of it in near-reverent silence over the next few minutes, before Charlotte glances up again. "Jen."

"Mm?"

"You've gotta help me figure this out. I mean it. It's one thing to know I'm doin' somethin' stupid and do it anyway, it's another animal entirely to be sittin' here stuck, not knowing how to move forward. I'm swallowin' my pride here and askin' for help. So help me. How do I even start to decide?"

"Okay." Jen leans back, sets her spoon on the table and grabs her wine. "Lightning round. First answer you can think of. You ready?"

It seems as good a plan as any, so Charlotte nods and readies herself. "Shoot."

"What draws you to Travis?"

"He's familiar. Comfortin'. A link to my past."

"You miss your past?"

"I miss some of the people. I miss the simplicity, and I miss… y'know what I miss?" She taps her own spoon against the edge of the plate lightly. "I miss Renee and Dean, and Todd. My family was screwed up as all hell, and Trav's was so normal. Sunday chicken, and laughin' over Friday night poker, and just bein' there for each other. I miss havin' in-laws that I knew liked me."

"Okay, you're really ruinin' the whole 'lightnin' round' thing here," Jen points out, before adding, "But we can take a break from the brain-yankin' and talk about this. You don't think Cooper's parents like you?"

"I don't know. He says they will – used to tell me all the time that his parents would love me just as much as he does, but it always kind of seemed like he was tryin' to convince himself as much as me, y'know?"

Jen nods, sips her wine, waits Charlotte out.

"I guess… Trav's parents are… were… they're good Southern folk. They were raised the same way I was – aside from the income bracket – and I just… I know what to expect. They're my kind of people. Cooper's parents… want their grandkids to go to Hebrew school, and, I don't know, eat hot-dishes and build snowmen or somethin'. His life was just so different from mine, and I don't think I'm what they wanted for him."

"Screw 'em," Jen tells her, and it's advice so typical of Charlotte that she can't help but laugh out loud.

"Screw 'em, huh?"

"Yes." Jen raises her glass a little. "Screw 'em. They're not the ones marryin' you, and this is all hypothetical anyway, because the way I see it, the two of you aren't walkin' down the aisle any time soon. So screw 'em. Worry about Cooper, not his parents." She punctuates her statement by draining the last of her wine, then reaching for the bottle.

"I guess." Charlotte toys with what's left of the cheesecake. "Okay, back to the lightnin' round."

"Alright… What drew you to Cooper?"

"A fresh start." She blinks a little, like it's just hit her, and says, "He's the future, I guess. If Travis is the past. There's so much unknown with Coop, and it's scary, but at the same time… It's good. It's new. He's new. Relatively speakin', anyway. We're still comin' across things – big things, sometimes – that we don't know about each other, and I like that. I like the idea of buildin' somethin' new. I know we're not without our share of bumps, but we've weathered 'em. All but this last one, anyway. And we seem to have come through that okay, if I could just make a damned decision."

"All good to know. But. Lightning round," Jen reminds. "Quick, short, immediate."

"Right, right." Charlotte takes a bite of cheesecake and nods at Jen.

"Who's the most talented?"

"Travis."

"Who makes you laugh the hardest?"

"Cooper."

"Who's best in bed?"

"Cooper."

"Really?" Jen raises a curious brow.

"Oh, Lord, yes. Best I've ever had."

"Knew there was a reason you put up with his crap," Jen smirked. "Who snores loudest?"

"Me," Charlotte admits guiltily, and Jen cackles her amusement.

"What's missin' between you and Cooper?"

"Trust."

"What do you need to tell Travis?"

"That I knew—" Charlotte catches herself, shuts her mouth, and damns the lightning round. What was about to come out of her mouth was a secret she shares with only two people, and Jen's one of them. The other is one of the OBs at Atlanta General. And she can tell by the look that crosses Jen's face that she knows exactly what she was about to say. Probably wouldn't even have asked the damned question if she hadn't known it was coming.

Still, Jen tries for casual when she asks, "Have you talked to Travis about Max yet?"

Charlotte purses her lips together just a little and avoids the question by asking one of her own: "Why do you always call him by his name?"

"Because that was his name. That's the name you and Travis picked – I remember the day you called me, all aflutter, because you had names picked out already. Max Joseph, after your daddy, if it was a boy, and Harper Marjorie, after Harper Lee, if you were havin' a girl."

Charlotte feels that familiar ache in her chest – the deep throb of loss she can't avoid when this comes up. All she says is, "Who names their baby in the first trimester? Just askin' for trouble."

"Have you told him, Charlotte?"

She shifts uncomfortably, spoons up a mouthful of cheesecake, then passes the plate and its single bite worth to Jen. The dessert tastes suddenly lackluster and cloying against her tongue. Jen clears her throat, and Charlotte rolls her eyes at the insistence there. "No. I haven't. I made a decision when it happened – when we lost the baby – that I wouldn't tell him. Knowin' won't do him any good-"

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"No, Char. You don't." She sets plate on the coffee table, lone bite still abandoned there, and looks Charlotte in the eye. "I went light on ya when it happened, because you were swimmin' in grief, and you didn't need anyone pushin' you around, but I told you then, and I'm tellin' you again: he deserves to know just as much about the baby the two of you made as you do."

"There were no answers, Jen. You know that. He – it – he – the baby…" Charlotte takes a deep breath. Damnit. How the hell did they end up in this conversation? "There were no obvious abnormalities, no reason for it to happen; there's nothin' that could've made anythin' any easier on Travis. And the little that I know is inconsequential. Doesn't make a damned bit of difference."

"Then why'd you hide it?"

Charlotte stares hard at the material of her robe, traces the loops of thread with her eyes, and finally answers, "You know how much he wanted a boy."

"And you don't think knowin' he had a son might make it—"

"Harder," Charlotte tells her, firmly, looking her straight in the eye again. "It would've made it even harder on him. And I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Jen studies Charlotte for a minute, frowns over her, and looks like she's mullin' over her options. Finally, she says, "I think you're missin' an opportunity to clear your conscience here."

"My conscience is fine."

"Sugar, your conscience hasn't been fine since that day you called him from the hospital. You owe him the truth. But you don't want to talk about this anymore, so…" She turns, twists, looking for something, and Charlotte lets out the breath she's been holding. She doesn't give a damn what Jen comes up with, so long as it isn't more talk about the miscarriage. The baby. Max.

When Jen finally finds what she's been looking for – the remote – Charlotte is more than happy to distract herself with the OnDemand selections. She's had just about enough talk for one evening.


End file.
